#I know nothing about business structures

[boolger]

Im going to a job interview today for a big girl job and idk what I’ve gotten myself into 🥲🥲

[tanadrin]

And God said, "Behold! I have created the fourth primordial force: the weak interaction!"

And the angels all clapped and nodded politely, and there was a long silence; and finally Verchiel, the Angel of Grace, spoke up and asked, "Er, what exactly does it do, O Fashioner?"

And God said, "What do you mean, 'what does it do?' It's the fourth fundamental force of the universe."

And Verchiel said, "You mentioned that. Um. But it's just that the other three sort of have a brand, you know? Gravity helps build large-scale structures, acts over vast cosmic distances, shapes time and space. The strong force is secret, hidden, binding together quarks and all that. Electromagnetism, very cool stuff, somewhere in between. We're all big fans of the whole magnetic monopole double bluff, very clever. But, er. What does this 'weak interaction' do?"

And God said, "It mediates radioactive decay. Sort of."

And Verchiel said, "Radioactive decay? All radioactive decay?"

And God said, "No. Just some kinds."

And Zephaniel, the Chief of the Ishim spoke, and he said, "A whole independent force just to mediate some kinds of radioactive decay?"

And God said, "Well. Not totally independent. Technically it's related to electromagnetism."

And Zephaniel said, "Wait, it's not even a real force?"

And God said, "It's totally a real force. It's just that it's one aspect of a combined electromagnetic and weak force. An electro-weak force, if you will."

And Metatron, the Celestial Scribe, scratched his head at this, but said nothing.

And Cambiel, the Angel of Transformation, said, "Maybe you can walk us through it from the top."

And God Sighed an immense Sigh, and said, "All right, fine.

"So the way it works is that all of space and time is permeated by a field that has imaginary mass."

And Cambiel said, "Imaginary mass, O Generous Provider?"

And God said, "Yes, imaginary mass. It's tachyonic, d'you see?"

And Sarathiel, the Angel of Discipline, said, "Wait a minute, I thought we agreed nothing was going to travel faster than light? All that 'c' business and the whole Lorentz transformation thing. What's happening with that?"

And God said, "Let me finish. The field is tachyonic. The particles in the field all move slower than light."

And Sarathiel had to think about this for a second.

And God said, "The point is, a field with imaginary mass has a non-zero vacuum expectation value."

And this really gave Sarathiel trouble, since he had never been very good at math.

And God, seeing this, went back to explain. "Most fields, like the electromagnetic field, have no effect when they are at their lowest energy state. It's like they're not there at all. If you give a field imaginary mass, then it vanishes only when it's at a very high energy state, and at a low energy state, it has a nonzero value everywhere."

And Sarathiel nodded, but he was confused, because he didn't understand why God would create such a thing.

But Verchiel thought he saw where God was going with this, and he was amazed.

"Truly, you are cunning beyond measure, O Only One Certainly Sound and Genuine in Truth! Only now do I understand your design! For in order to make the universe homogenous and isotropic, it is necessary that all large-scale fluctuations in temperature and mass must be evened out early in the history of the cosmos; and therefore, you have designed a field which will rapidly expand space after the Big Bang, many orders of magnitude in brief moments, and then swiftly and spontaneously decay as it gives up the energy it began with, giving rise to radiation and particles of all kinds as it does, which will condense into the material universe! It is a wonder to behold."

And God said, "What? No. I mean I did, but this isn't the inflaton field I'm talking about. This is something else."

And Verchiel said, "Wait, it's not?"

And God said, "No, I'm going to use a different field to drive cosmic inflation. The properties of this field are totally different."

And now Verchiel was also confused, and lapsed into silence.

And God said, "Like I was saying, this field is a scalar field with imaginary mass, and it does spontaneously decay to a ground state with a non-zero value. But it's not the inflaton field. Instead it combines with the W1, W2, W3, and B bosons."

And Metatron began to flip back through the pages of the Heavenly Record trying to figure out where he'd lost the thread.

And Zephaniel said, "The what bosons?"

And God said, "The W1, W2, W3, and B bosons. I'm sure I mentioned them. You know, the massless bosons?"

And Zephaniel said, "I'm pretty sure we only talked about the W+, W-, and Z0 bosons. All of which you said were going to have mass, O Owner of All Sovereignty."

And God said, "Yes, but this is how they get them, you see. Once this field acquires a nonzero value everywhere, the massless bosons interact with it and get mass. Well, some of them do. They turn into the W+, W-, and Z0 boson. And the photon."

And Zephaniel said, "…and the photon, O Accepter of Invocation?"

And God said, "Well, I did say I was going to unify the electromagnetic force and the weak interaction, didn't I? This is how. Above the critical temperature--right now I'm thinking 10^15 K, but I'm open to feedback on that one--electromagnetism and the weak force act as a single unifying force. Below that temperature, the field gets a nonzero value, you get three massive bosons to mediate the weak interaction, and the photon pops out seperately."

And Zephaniel said, "That seems… a bit overly complicated, doesn't it, O Reinstater Who Brings Back All?"

And God said, "No, it's exactly what we need. Look, that way the W and Z bosons have something to do, but the weak interaction still only travels short distances. Gravity is still the star of the show on cosmic scales, as it were. But now quarks and leptons can swap their flavor!"

And Zephaniel said, rather weakly, "Their… flavor, O Source of Good?"

And God said, "It's this new quantum number I'm trying out, to give the three generations of matter more unique identities."

And Cambiel said, "Three generations of matter? Now I'm really confused."

And God said, "I'm sure I mentioned this. You've got the lightest quarks and leptons, and then two heavier versions of each that can decay into the lighter versions."

And Cambiel said, "What do they do? New kinds of chemistry, is it?"

And God said, "Well, no. Mostly they just decay in a couple microseconds. Or even faster."

And Zephaniel began to rub his temples, and Cambiel sniffed.

And Cambiel said, "This all seems a bit ad hoc to me. Not really the stuff of an elegant and obviously ordered Creation. Why not have four generations of matter? Why not a trillion?"

And God began to grow irritable, and said, "Well, that's not really up to you, now is it? We're going to have three generations of matter, and the electroweak force, and that's that!"

And Zephaniel said, "As long as we are unifying fundamental forces, perhaps we could somehow also unify the electroweak interaction with the strong interaction, or even gravity."

And God hesitated saying, "Well, I haven't decided about that yet. I'm not sure I want gravity to be quantized, you know? Seems to take some of the geometric elegance out of general relativity."

And now it was Zephaniel's turn to sigh, and he bowed his head. "As you wish, O Possessor of Authority of Decisions and Judgement."

[millerillusions]

Invest In Me | Harry Castillo x f!reader

Summary: Your life has always been structured, dependable. You don’t stray, and it’s gifted you affluence. When you rashly decide to go on a blind date and they don’t show, you’re left with another fruitless, lone night of solitary. Until one equally lonely Harry Castillo invites himself to your dinner table and offers you a partnership just maybe worth investing in.

Pairing: Harry Castillo (Materialists) x f!reader

Word Count: 10k

Warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, unprotected piv (don’t be silly, wrap your willy.), oral (f!receiving), pull out and pray, cum eating, praise, wealthy hedge fund manager reader, lucy doesn’t exist/isn’t mentioned, fancy wine drinking, smoking, fluff, so much flirting, the authors limited knowledge of business and chess, no description of reader other than female anatomy and wears a dress/heels, a little easter egg referencing the kitchen scene bc i couldn't help myself

A/N: yes.. i did just post about my current wips.. but then i watched materialists, and came home and immediately wrote (no major spoilers in this). wanted to write something where Harry finds a partner who's also rich and work-oriented. i caved too quick for him and had to. sorry. thanks to anyone who reads <33 dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Masterlist

Blind dates are foolish.

You knew this. You’ve always thought this. Have never been convinced otherwise.

They’re wishes; a hopeful fantasy that two people will somehow be able to run an effective, effortless conversation despite knowing nothing about the other prior. They’re unorganised, variable.

Inconsistent. Nothing in your life is inconsistent.

You wake up at 5:30AM. Have a shower. Do your hair. Face. Slip on business casual clothes. Breakfast paired with a cappuccino with an extra shot of espresso. At work by 7AM. At your desk by 7:30AM. Home by 4:30PM.

Sure, sometimes the schedule can dip and maneuver in the later hours of the night in accordance with your current work load, but the point is- you have a schedule. It’s unwavering, sustained. Perfectly crafted to suit your needs and the straining pressure of your job.

You don’t do foolish acts like going on a blind date that the incompetent Rebecca you sometimes have a decent conversation with who sits at the desk opposite yours coerced you into believing would be enjoyable.

Witless, you think, as you stare blandly towards the empty plate opposite yours, framed by silver cutlery and a flawlessly folded napkin, pressed to delicacy. The third glass from the 2020 bottle of Argiano Toscana clenched between your impeccably manicured nails that tap an insistent, mindless rhythm against the stem. The liquor swirls like a bleeding wound in your glass, swishing up against the edges in crimson waterfalls each time you twirl it. It’s bitter on your tongue. Some blackcurrant and dark cherry bullshit of a far too expensive amalgamation of Merlot and Sauvignon Blanc.

Plus, there’s also the delicate lace-trimmed Stygian black dress curled around your body that flows down to your shin with a slit up along to the thigh, paired with simple but efficient silver heels. It’s not the most comfortable item you’ve ever worn- but it’s nice. Extravagant, if you look at it close enough.

Reckless, you think, glaring across at that empty plate on the opposite side of your two-person table that belongs to a person who hadn’t shown up. Toby, Troy, or something. Someone who apparently worked in luxury Real Estate, but who couldn’t even sell you one night of fulfillment or anything close to it. You had to call three different acquaintances to even acquire this table booking tonight, and this is apparently how gratitude is expressed back for your effort.

The candlelight flickers and illuminates the few tables scattered around the devastatingly wealth-painted Italian restaurant, the light laying across one side of your face like some sort of forlorn, two-faced golem sat isolated in the corner. Each of the other tables are occupied, mostly with couples on some feigned romantic date they paid too much to obtain, murmuring words of faux-affection across the flutter of a gentle flame and small portions of meals that took half of their last pay to afford.

“Were we still waiting on ordering, ma’am?” A voice abruptly chips into your carefully molded self-preservation, drawing your gaze slowly up to the waiter with the unpigmented mesh apron wrapped tight around his waist. You blink, eyes unfocused after glaring sharpened blades into the plate ahead of you like it might magically force a meal and a person to form.

“Yep. Still waiting,” You confirm, a grimace tugging at your features as you watch the waiter hesitate, glancing between you and the empty chair opposite. The situation you’re in is ridiculously obvious, like an open gash starkly revealed to everyone in the establishment.

He nods in understanding anyways, pivoting on polished shoes to leave, when you chip up to him, voiced edged with an indignation you fail to swallow back.

“Mind fetching the bottle?”

The man blinks back over his shoulder, peering down towards the glass in your hand, mapping out which wine bottle he needs to fetch. His brows twitch for just a beat- though you’re not sure if it’s in concern or awe- before he’s offering you a polite smile and dipping his head, whisking back to the kitchen to follow through.

You exhale sharply through your nose like the very breath is strenuous, eyelids fluttering closed before you’re leaning back in your chair. Dragging your gaze across the restaurant, the tungsten lighting- warm, reassuring, meaning to console the guests. Currently, it just makes you feel dreary.

You’re preparing to go on another wistful subconscious rant about the disadvantaged woes of blind dates whilst wondering if your vibrator’s batteries have been charged when a figure does appear. Looming like an assured shadow before lowering down into the seat opposite. Your head reels up to stare rather owlishly towards the newcomer’s sudden appearance. He leans back into the wooden seat like he belongs there, has already marked ground, a suave kind of allure hovering around him that you’re surprised you don’t immediately find smarmy, especially combined with the easy grin that upturns the corner of his lip.

Brown eyes are amongst the first things you notice.

The kind of brown that ensures it peers right into you without missing a beat, cooling the simmering apprehension in your chest like it’s effortless. Then the way he’s dressed. A black mesh top- formal enough for the establishment but not so lavish it’s considered profligate. He has a Roman kind of curve to his nose, full lips with a littering of a mustache that combs out into a stubble. He’s handsome, to say the least. Enough to make your heart stutter in a beat, but you blame it on alarm.

His brow curls upwards in a quirk at you as though expecting you to speak first, breaking you away from your pensive observation, mouth slightly parted like you’re spellbound. This can’t be Troy, Toby, Something. He looks too put together to fit the category of Rebecca’s acquaintances.

“You’re not my blind date sent by Rebecca, are you?” You ask blatantly.

He doesn’t look offended by the question. Rather, he seems amused.

“You’re the Hedge Fund Manager.”

His voice comes as a lower drawl than you expected. You can’t pinpoint the accent, but it’s like a rumble of a lullaby past your ears, twirling in mollifying notes with the gentle lull of the piano chords whisking in the air through the speakers. His residence here within just moments of seeing him is zephyr-like, as though he shifts and changes in accordance to the room he’s stationed in, all whilst commanding it with just the broad capability he clearly holds.

Your face falls slightly at his unforeseen mention of your occupation. You tilt back in your own chair, unsure if you’re trying to build an air of nonchalance or trying to create distance between you and this stranger that isn’t just the polished timber of the table.

“I dabble in that, sure,” You reply candidly, idly cautious. His eyes seem to lighten with satisfaction in the faint sandstone lighting. Like he’s trying to breach the space you created, he leans himself forward, tucking his elbows onto the table.

“You recently funded the last deal I brokered. Luxe Escapes,” He explains coolly. You perked slightly, gaze whisking along him, trying to regard him with a more inquisitive glance, wondering distantly if you had ever communicated with him before. It feels unlikely. You think you would’ve remembered a face like this.

“How were you involved in that?” You question, distantly wondering if you had clashed with him over the deal and that’s why you dismissed his existence following the conflict; act as though it never happened until the complication eventually dissolves itself into ash whilst you’re left with your triumph.

“I was the Sales Executive,” He assures, noting the slight pull of your shoulder blades in anticipation of a tense conversation. You blink, frets smoothed over swiftly.

“You were the Sales Executive?” You echo, giving him a once-over. Truthfully, it’s not difficult at all to imagine him pacing around a vast space of some grey-painted living room, footsteps leaden and quick as he prattles on about why some company or item would be efficient and worthwhile to invest in.

“That’s me,” He confirms, but he doesn’t look exactly supercilious or smug. Definitely not like that hotel branch company of luxury stays that conform the guests into the daydream of ‘escaping reality’ is rapidly becoming worth millions of dollars.

“And you are?”

“Harry.”

You tsk softly, tongue clicking against the roof of your mouth, seemingly unimpressed. Your head tilts, along with your wine glass as you circle it with mindless consideration, tone sardonic. “Harry. Fancy.”

He smirks lopsidedly, fingers flexing where they curl neatly over each other on the table. “Thought it’d sound less formal than saying Harry Castillo outright like this is a business meeting.”

“You’ve only talked about business so far,” You remind him facetiously.

“That’s fair. Let me try again,” He concurs. Then he rolls his thickset shoulders back to fixate his posture, a good-natured smile stretching along his inviting lips. He tilts himself forward, outstretching his hand towards you over the table. “Harry. I saw you sitting here over here alone and thought I’d come join you.”

You pause for just a beat, gaze fluttering to his outstretched hand, then back to him. Brazenly and uncharacteristically, you decide to amuse whatever this is. Leaning forward to meet him, you stick out your arm and take his hand, offering your own name back. His palm curls over yours, practically swallowing the proportions of your hand. It makes your throat tight realising how large he is, taking up the space like a polished, debonair boulder.

“You didn’t think about if I’d tell you to go away?” You hum, squinting towards him in silent challenge, attuned to keeping up this impression of satire he doesn’t seem to mind. His hand is still engulfed over yours- and instead of shaking, he squeezes once, before attentively turning your palm downwards, until he’s holding just your fingers in his grip. He bends down further, dipping his head down to lay an amiable but lingering kiss against your knuckles.

But what sends your heartbeat tripping calamitously in your ear drums is the way he keeps his eyes perched towards you, unwavering and unmoving. Drowning you in a melody of heat that seeps over you like dripping, melted sugar. That subtle flicker of interest swirling within the embrace of coffee-coloured warmth.

“I did. But I just had hope that you wouldn’t,” He rumbles in reply as he lifts back up, tentatively dropping your hand. It hovers sluggishly in the air for a beat too long before you finally regain control of your motor functions and let it fall back to your thigh. You huff a short, disbelieving laugh disguised as an exhale.

“Hope sourced from what?”

He crosses his hands over his lap, head cocking to the side as he considers the question for a moment, a sense of susceptibility murmured through the language of gaze. It’s not exactly pitying, just heartening.

“From the way you look like you could use some company,” He answers sincerely, his eyes flickering over you in an appreciative once-over that doesn’t feel like he’s leering, only valuing like you’re something cherishable. “And, admittedly, in good faith I couldn’t let that dress go to waste. It looks too good on you to do so.”

Jesus, he’s pulling out every move in the game.

Atypical in comparison to your usual indifferent composure, you can feel your cheeks heating, burning your skin. Actually flustered for the first time in what feels like months.

As if your own personal saviour dedicated to assuaging all your needs, the waiter swoops back in with the bottle of wine you requested held in two hands. He pauses for a second as he notices Harry, incredulity flicking through his eyes. But then he sends you a pleased smirk and unscrews the cork of the bottle, refilling your glass with repeated precision.

You murmur a quick gratitude, and the waiter takes the initiative to fill up the wine glass in front of Harry, who nods his own thanks. He plucks it up from the stem, gaze flickering from the rich scarlet liquid as he swirls it before returning back to you as he takes a sip, gaze remaining set on you. You mimic his actions, eyeing him from over the translucent rim, gaining back your conviction.

“Merlot,” He muses as he lowers the liquor from his lips. Your purse your own with amusement.

“You know wine?”

“No. The bottle's label says Merlot,” He says matter-of-factly, mirth ringing in his tone as he gestures off-handedly to the bottle. You blink quickly, that flushed tint coiling back over your skin, which only spurs him on.

“Fancy,” He comments steadily.

You breathe out sharply, lifting the glass back to your mouth to take a quick sip, lifting your shoulders in a careless shrug. “Didn’t think I was going to have any company.”

“I hope I’ll live up to any expectations you had for tonight,” He says, intentions genuine. But he clearly noticed how the table was set up for two when he approached, and yet only holding you.

It’s correctly jarring and disorienting considering your former thoughts on blind dating just a short while ago. Sure, this meeting wasn’t set up between you and Harry- but it was still accepting an offer of company from a stranger you knew nothing about prior, just as you would on a blind date. Harry continues to persuade you into telling him more about yourself, which you tentatively immerse yourself with.

Much to your bewilderment, you don’t entirely despise the conversation that you slip into with him. It’s smooth, undemanding, and light.

You tell him mundane things like what you had for breakfast, how early you usually wake, your pet lizard who lives back at your parent’s home in LA- before dipping into the story of why you were seated alone in this abundantly ornate and elaborate restaurant. Sheepishly laying out the story of how Rebecca had somehow coerced you into going on a blind date with a guy you can’t remember the name of, and how he stood you up. You shield any mortified winces with expressions of contempt, fingers starting up that irritable tapping against the stem of your glass again.

You go back and forth on sharing short, meaningless information about yourselves. Learning how Harry got into sales, explaining he grew up being surrounded by factors of money and influence constantly. He gestures back to a pair sheltered in a side booth, both hunched over the table and murmuring to each other like deadly secrets are being transferred. He elucidates with a grimace about how they’re newly-weds, boisterous and too sickeningly loving, which is what first led him to approach you when he couldn’t stand another second of third-wheeling his own kin and his newfound wife.

“So I guess we were both just feeling a bit lonely tonight,” You evaluate, chin tilting your face sideways slightly, wondering, are you lonely just like me?

“I suppose so.”

“Any thoughts on how to quench loneliness?” You ask, tone coy, one leg lifting to cross over the other. His gaze follows the movement, dropping to the table as though he can see it through the glossy wood.

“You want me to be honest?” He murmurs, eyes returning to your face, your features cast with casual curiosity.

“Of course.”

“I’d like to invite you back to mine tonight,” He admits, unhesitant.

Your moulded expression falters with the outright confession, heart tripping with it.

“You would?” You almost gawk.

“Only if you’re interested,” He assures, mouth thinning slightly as if he mistook your reaction for apathy.

“It’s not that I’m not entirely interested,” You correct, drawing out a soft sigh to collect yourself, propping one of your elbows onto the table. “I’m just.. weighing the pros and cons.”

He gives a slanted grin as you rest your chin on the palm of your hand. “Pros; you won’t be spending the night alone. Cons; you have to deal with repeats of Pink Floyd continuously playing during the car ride.”

You can’t help the gladdened snort that falls from you at the jest. You purse your bottom lip thoughtfully.

“And what do you expect to get in return?” You try to keep your voice methodical.

“Company,” He answers easily, his tone not housing any insistence for you to acquiesce.

You squint towards him, studying and observing. Maybe slightly teasingly, weighing the options over in your head like you’re being faced with a task from your employer.

“It sounds like an investment strategy,” You comment off-handedly.

“More like a mutual agreement.”

You lean back into your chair, hands falling back into your lap, giving a purposeful show of tipping your head to the side again.

“To fuck?” You question crudely. You catch the brief surprise that whisks along his features, but also the way the corner of his mouth twitches in the starts of a smile.

“To not be lonely,” He rectifies.

“Just for a night?” You test, your arms crossing over your middle loosely in a subconscious move of defence.

“Or we could see where it goes after,” He says with that enticing interest painted over his eyes again, with maybe some mingled hope tangled through it.

“After we fuck,” You lift your chin up, humour dour, like the thought of going back to Harry’s doesn’t send adrenaline pulsing through your veins.

He lets himself grin at your bluntness this time around. “Sure.”

“And if I’m thinking about saying no?” You croon, just to scrutinise his reaction, see if this gallant, poised persona of his can stumble.

His jaw clenches in consideration. “How do you usually approach your possible investments?”

You only pause for a beat.

“Like a game of chess.”

“Chess?” He parrots, intrigue evident. You nod.

“Investment is a game of chess. You think about all the strategies you need to win the board over, not just about your next move,” You cerebrate, eyes tipping down to your wine glass, fingertips etching a mindful pattern over it. “Each piece has its own pros and cons, like multiple investments do. If you move a piece in the right direction, it can become a more powerful player. It can grow in importance over time. But, a rash decision can leave you vulnerable and perceptible to attacks, or you can strategise and reach a checkmate. You need to invest foresight before anything else.”

His eyes round towards you as you tatter contemplatively, a deference evident in the solemn features of his gaze.

“So it’s a high-risk, high-reward situation,” He suggests, drawing your attention squarely back to him. A sly, knowing smile pulls at your mouth.

“That’s only considering it is a high reward.”

He doesn’t back down, fishing out a lighthearted jest, willingly taking the extra leap to solidify the blatant idea whisking between you. An idea you both already know was agreed to the moment he complimented your sleek dress earlier. “You could always find out. The customer is offering a first-hand demonstration.”

“Well, I do have to adapt to my opponent’s moves,” You hum wittingly, an easy, unarmed smile replacing your artful coquettishness.

“Is that an agreement we’re coming to?” He questions, optimism lighting his face the same way the candlelight casting along the strong curve of his jaw does.

“A mutual one, yes,” You assent, your stomach fluttering like a rocket preparing for launch, excitement twirling through you in searing ambers now that you’ve concretely settled on your decision.

“My driver can be here in the next ten minutes,” He suggests, brow raising. You agree zealously, smoothing your slightly clammy hands down the front of your dress as you rise to a stand. Harry fetches both his wallet and phone from his pants pocket, swinging a text his brother’s way to let him know he won’t be returning to advise him on how to keep his freshly-made wife appeased, and then calling his driver to your location. Placing a few hefty bills as a tip on the table even though neither of you ordered any food- which you belatedly realise- before he’s turning back to you, guiding you out of the establishment, his hand hovering just above the small of your back, barely grazing his touch along you.

You breathe out sharply as the pair of you move out of the restaurant onto the sidewalk, the New York nighttime traffic bustling, the usual tumultuous honk of a horn and the blinding streak of striking lights second-hand nature to you by now. You lean back against the rust-coloured brick of the building, hooking out a cigarette from the packet you kept stashed in your purse, just a pick-me-up in case Troy, Toby, Something ended up being a mundane bore.

Now you light the end, watching the embers burn as they smear tobacco into your lungs in hopes it’ll cool your anticipation long enough to arrive at Harry’s place first before you accidentally slip up and decide to crash your lips against his now and try to lick that blackcurrant wine right off his tongue against this brick wall.

“Drive shouldn’t be too long. I have a penthouse just up in up-town Manhattan,” Harry explains, peering down at his phone to confirm the driver’s journey to you both, settling next to you. You exhale, the smoke pluming up above you, catching away with the blur of a gentle breeze that’s swiftly turning frigid despite the mellow spring weather.

“You own a penthouse in up-town Manhattan?” You echo with only a tinge of bemusement intertwined.

“That surprising?” He raises a brow with a serene look.

“Not really,” You answer quickly. It wasn’t surprising at all, truthfully. He carried the staunch of his wealth with every step, his frame swallowing up the space he accompanied like he had banked out millions worth of cash just to own it, even somewhere as mundane as a sidewalk. It makes your breath hitch all the more as you watch his sombre eyes flutter down to your lips as they part to allow a plume of whitened smoke to trail up past your nose.

“Good,” He murmurs, gaze flickering back up to meet yours after a moment too long has passed.

You swallow gratingly at the simple way he eases into such a winsome persona, glamour and charisma tailing him constantly. He ushers you forth with a warm hand at the top of your spine as the car arrives, letting you stub out your half-smoked cigarette on the sidewalk before holding the door open for you as you slide into the backseat of the lush vehicle, smiling stiffly towards the driver, nerves growing fretfully in a churn in your lower stomach. Harry settles into the leather seat beside you, addressing the driver deferentially and directing him to upper Manhattan, back home.

As promised, the trip is entirely filled with the pleasant, tranquil lull of Pink Floyd drifting through the speakers, mingled with occasional talk between you and Harry. But for the most part, there’s just an effortless, unworried quiet between you; no demand to appear modish or shrewd- just a mutual understanding of comfortability.

The driver pulls up to the curb not long after, Harry swiftly hopping out of the car and trudging around to help you out. This time around, his hand settles more firmly against the base of your spine, fingers curling slightly as he leads you up to his penthouse with a phlegmatic gait, nodding his chin in polite greeting to the staff you pass. Your face is shrouded with a sanguine expression, heartbeat growing more erratic as you step inside the elevator.

Harry opens the dark-oaked door for you, allowing you to move inside the space first, his hand falling away from your lower back. Just with a first glance, you can tell how sumptuous it is. A wide, inviting hallway that opens out into a lavish living room and curves around to a dining table and kitchen, extensive floor-to-ceiling windows combing the expanse of the far wall. The hallway has two other doors perched at the opposite end, which you suppose lead to the bathroom and bedroom. It has similar lighting to the restaurant, only lit by the oscillating flutter of the city lights outside the windows, casting shadows inside and streams of gentle light, along with the low copper glow of a lamp sitting on the coffee table.

“You want a drink?” Harry asks, trotting through the living room in the direction of a side-bar set up opposite the dining table. You turn your gaze back to him, away from the darkened New York City skyline, a sight that somehow augmented your confidence.

“You don’t want to get straight to the business part of tonight? Close the deal?”

He pauses by the counter littered with liquors, blinking over his shoulder back towards you, a beguiled surprise whisking along his features. He diverts his actions, hand falling away from the wine he had been reaching for, instead turning around to face you. He leans back slightly against the bartop, a brow lifting with a teasing fashion.

“Well, I was hoping to try and charm you a bit first,” He replies steadily, his gaze looking even darker in the subdued lighting, casting over the entire length of you. Your body tenses slightly under the regarding look of cherishing esteem, your blood buzzing alight beneath your skin, anticipation coiling.

You take a step forward to meet him, which prompts him to kick off from the edge of the bar, taking purposeful steps towards here.

“Inviting me here was enough,” You murmur when he’s only a few short footsteps from you, deliberately fluttering your eyelashes and craning your neck up to meet his auburn-painted eyes swallowed by a blazing darkness. The side of his mouth twitches, as if with amusement, before it’s mellowing and darkening into something more decisive, nearly hungry-looking.

“Well, in that case..” He mumbles, more to himself, closing the distance between you. His hands lift to steady themselves on your hips, fingers curling around your frame with a durable finality. Your throat tightens with suspense, hopefulness whisking through you as his head tilts, eyes dropping down towards your lips. But neither of you shy away, your gaze mimicking his and wavering down to the fullness of his mouth that suddenly seems so close.

He leans in, and you mirror the movement, going to meet him- his breath brushes along the skin of your mouth which parts on instinct, eyes dropping to slip closed. His hands flex against your sides, and he pauses, pulling back with just a murmur of dubiety shadowing him.

“Though- you can pull out of this investment at any time, you know,” He reminds you, earnestly searching your gaze. You appreciate the effort to reassure and console you, but you fear your knees might give out beneath you if you have to go back and forth with this bashful, coquettish teasing any longer.

“Okay. Enough with the business metaphors. Just kiss me,” You husk back, one of your hands sliding up to curve around the nape of his neck and bring his face back down to yours. He meets you halfway, your lips meeting in a secure, firm kiss.

Your other hand lifts to balance yourself against his covered chest as his mouth slots over yours. It’s not rushed or heady like you might have expected in this case; but instead slow, deep. Assured. Bounding in a way that makes your lips part when his tongue drags along your bottom lip, coaxing. You acquiesce easily, sighing as his tongue meets yours, tangling in a precise dance that gradually grows more resolute, determined.

You sigh into his mouth as if you’re alleviated as his arms curl around your waist, tightening his hold on you, large hands tracing over the dress painted over your back. You tilt your head to the side to purposefully deepen the kiss, which he easily follows, movements quickly growing more desperate, a heat you thought had become a long-lost friend burning at the base of your spine, looping around in curling tendrils to your belly, warming. Your hand traces up from his neck to the edge of his jaw, then up into his hair- softer than you expected, threading through your fingers like silk.

You tug gently, urging. He sounds a low groan into the kiss, arms pulling you flush with the firmness of his body, the two of you swaying slightly to the side, unbalanced. He grips at your waist and guides you backwards. You stumble slightly in your heels, to which his hands curl tighter around your sides, nearly lifting you from the floor and carrying you backwards. He delicately but hurriedly pushes you back against a small side-table where he placed his keys by the door in the hallway, mouth working more urgently over yours. You respond with equal enthusiasm, a desperation clawing through each of your movements as your ass presses back into the edge of the wood, hips tilting.

He keeps one arm wrapped around your body whilst the other dips down, fingers toying with the edge of your dress where the split ends on your thigh. His fingers tilt beneath the fabric, carefully skimming along the softer skin of your inner thigh, making you keen towards him. He then swiftly grabs at your hips, and hoists you up onto the table.

The sudden action has you gasping with incredulity, lips disconnecting from his. He doesn’t waste a beat of not occupying his mouth, head dipping downwards to attach his lips to your neck. He kisses down the length of your throat, tongue tipping out to drag along your pulse, feeling it flutter frantically beneath the muscle.

He travels down further with open-mouthed kisses, to the exposed line of your collarbone. He curls his lips, sucking a small, blooming mark of purple into the small dip by the bone, his tongue smoothing over it. You should scold him, knowing you’ll have to cover it when you go into work next- but your thoughts are swiftly disoriented as he steps between your legs which part instinctually for him, his body moving flush to yours. You can feel the bulge of his arousal pressing into where your dress begins to hike up.

Need barrels into you harsher than you expected. With hasty fingers, you slide both of your hands down his body to his waist, hands working urgently at his belt. You barely get the buckle undone before his hands are covering yours, fingers dipping down to curl over your wrists and cease your actions.

He tuts, lifting his head from your neck.

“Not yet, honey. Wanna taste you first.”

You go to groan your objection, but it’s quickly swayed and swallowed by his mouth again, laying a prompt yet lingering kiss before he’s nipping at your chin, your jaw, working downwards. He lathes swift, small pecks of his lips over the curve of your chest, before following further down to your middle, his hand returning to your thigh, dragging beneath the hem of your dress beneath the slit, gliding upwards to your inner thigh, right by where you need him most.

He drops down more, his knees crouching down with a slight strain, and you notice the gentle wince that pulls at his face, the angle just not right. The table an inch too tall for him to comfortably try and settle between your thighs without an awkward position of having his body half-hunched and knees bent gracelessly, like some clumsy structure of a tower.

“You don’t have to crouch awkwardly, Castillo,” You inform through a rather breathless laugh, mirthful. Not mocking him, just finding his rushed enthusiasm endearing. You tug gently at his hair, coaxing him back enough for you to slide off the edge of the side-table so you’re pressed back against it again, ass squished against the wood. “I can just lean back on this.”

His eyes flutter up to yours with an inkling of vulnerability that’s quickly replaced with his own amusement as he comfortably settles onto his knees in front of you, now at the precise height to meet you.

“Great point. Underestimated my height,” He rumbles with gaiety, hiking one of your legs up so it’s resting half on the table, whilst looping your calf over his shoulder, opening you up further to him.

His fingers curl over through the fabric through the slit on your thigh, hiking up your dress enough to rumple it around your hips and give himself more access, both of his hands curling around your shins, before sliding up the expanse of your legs to your thighs with a reverent touch, like he’s sculpting a statue from just the rawness of his fingertips. He opens your dress like he’s unveiling a museum artifact, slowly opening the sheen curtains of the hem.

A nearly distraught sound falls from him.

“Jesus,” He breathes, eyes rounding, locked towards your covered core. Wrapped in a delicate black lace. His thumb swipes out to prod and stroke gently over the gusset he finds already damp, making his eyes flutter and his eyes drop with a ravenous look.

Your breath hitches, and his insatiable attention lifts up to you, locking his gaze on yours like an enchanting siren call.

“This was for him?” He mutters, calling back to your blind date who never showed up. He keeps his eyes on your face as he dips forward, pressing a lingering kiss to the inside of your thigh.

“Not anymore,” You reply throatily, fingers carding through his hair, urging. He smiles, nearly smug, boastful. Then lowers his head and presses another kiss to you, this time right against the soaked fabric of your panties, over your soaked folds held beneath. His hands slide higher beneath your dress to your hips to hook his thumbs through the waistband of the lace, dragging your panties down your legs with meticulous slowness. He curls the moist material in his fist after hooking it over your heels, before he’s tucking it into the back pocket of his pants like a secret fantasy hidden away.

His eyes drop down to where you’re now revealed to him, hands returning to your inner thighs, widening the stance, slotting his broad shoulders between them. You hear his breath stumble as he takes in the sight of you; puffy folds drenched with need, clit basically begging for his attention, hole clenching around nothing like it’s already calling him directly to you.

“So pretty, darlin’,” He murmurs, his thumb stroking out to swipe along the edges of your lips, spreading them wider for him. You feel your heart loop around in a scattered carousel as he lowers his face completely between your legs, his tongue flicking out to flatten against your cunt, then smooth upwards in one slow, long line.

You gasp at the wet heat of his tongue, and he responds with a drawling groan, his hand wrapping tight around your thigh. Then he’s lapping more insistently at your dripping slit, collecting your juices on his tongue like it’s the sweet nectar of a maple tree. His mouth lifts, suckling your clit past his lips, his tongue stroking over it in a smoothing motion that makes you twitch, chest arching upwards with a sharp inhale.

His tongue dips down, experimentally sliding inside you, curling to taste the slick right off your fluttering walls, slick pooling on the muscle. The motion has a devastating whimper slipping from your lips, your hand tightening and yanking lightly at his hair. He moans into you, the sound reverberating right up your spine in a quiver and making your hips flex into his mouth, which he only responds to with an eager, nearly debauched slurp, his mouth covering the entirety of your pulsing core like it’s his personal alter.

He licks into you, maneuvering between plunging his tongue in and out of your hole and sucking against that sensitive bundle of nerves that makes your knees threaten to give out. His eyes slip closed with a fervent expression as he suckles against your clit, his hand coiling up from your thigh to work his middle finger into you, your tightness wrapping around the digit as your mouth parts pendulously, body eagerly accepting the stretch of his thick finger.

He begins to dip his finger in and out of you with strenuous slowness, letting you feel each drag of it along your walls, making you drip more shiny slick onto him, drooling down onto his palm. He swipes his tongue out to collect it right from the source, drawing a ragged moan from both of you as he experimentally plunges his tongue into you alongside his finger. The act is followed by an obscene squelch as he licks up your fallen juices, the curve of his nose pressing against your clit.

“Oh, shit, like that-” You puff, chest heaving upwards. You urge him impossibly closer to you with the end of your heel pressing into his shoulder blade. He avidly complies, his finger moving faster inside you, submerging his tongue and twirling it inside you, curling and lapping. Your hips twist as he finger fucks you, but he stills you with one hand against your hip, whilst the other dips down to flatten his palm against your mound, his thumb slicking out and circling tightly over your clit.

You jerk, a whine curdling up past your throat as the tendrils simmer through your pelvis, the triple stimulation of his finger fucking into you repeatedly alongside his tongue catching any of your dribbling slick, and the rub of his thumb over your bundle of nerves making you lean further back against the side-table.

"Tha's it. You gonna come for me?” He asks into your cunt, voice muffled into your skin, sending another shiver up along your spine whilst you nod earnestly, quickly, lips pursing with another impure moan.

He redoubles and amplifies his efforts, sinking his middle finger deeper inside you, fucking it into you with rougher, sharper movements designed to make you uncoil like thread around his digit. His tongue continues to cuff and curl inside you, licking at you. His thumb strokes acute, tight circles around your clit until your thighs are clenching around his head.

Your hips roll down eagerly, impaling yourself further onto his tongue and finger, eyes slipping closed as your rapture tightens through your system, burning up along your spine and lashing over your chest like a smoothing of velvet honey. You’re pushed and diving thirstily down into the looping ravines of bliss, gushing down onto his tongue, your hand fisting in his hair.

He makes a starved sound against you, his tongue eagerly pushing and swiping, drinking down everything you have to offer like it’s something holy, an amalgamation of sweetness and headiness he’s rapidly becoming addicted to.

You wrench at his hair more insistently as he continues his ministrations against you, although slower, savouring each drip of your slick onto his skin and tongue. You whimper as the overstimulation of the flick of his tongue has your hips tilting away, his thumb a steady pressure against your puffy clit. He grins against you, smug, but relents, lifting his face up from between your thighs and peering up towards you with a lopsided smirk, pleased and satisfied.

“Okay?” He asks raspingly, like his lower face isn’t smeared with your release, lips glossy with you. You don’t reply, instead curling both of your hands over his cheeks and practically dragging him back up your body, lifting him up from his sore knees until his mouth is pressing back to yours, fervent, like you’re starved. You lick into his mouth to taste yourself on his tongue, moaning against him.

His nose bumps against yours as the kiss escalates, famished and keen, his hand grabbing at your jaw to direct your face and deepen your movements, his slick middle finger smearing your want against your skin. His other hand grabs at your hip to steer you away from the side-table, leading you backwards to those two doors by the end of the hall, mumbling into your mouth. “Want you in my bed.”

You both stumble slightly, but quickly anchor yourselves, polished leather and the plastic of heels clacking against the linoleum floors. His hand on your jaw drops down to snake behind you and fiddle with the zipper of your dress until it eventually comes loose, dragging it down to the base of your spine. The glossy material slides off your frame, pooling at your ankles. He helps you step out of it, guiding you backwards through the doorway to where you assume is his bedroom, his lips never breaking away from yours.

He kicks off his shoes whilst you wrestle off your heels, dropping down a few short inches as his hands covetously travel over you, melding over your curves like he can’t trace enough of you in the time he has- which is the entire night. He unclasps your bra, discarding it carelessly to the side with a soft clatter, leaving you completely bare for him.

His large hands come to immediately cup your breasts, squeezing carefully, his thumbs swiping over your nipples that quickly pebble under his attention. You whimper softly, pulling your lips from his and pushing your chest up into his hold, head slinging back with a breathy sigh. He takes the initiative, dipping his head down and attacking along the underside of your jaw, his tongue prodding at that sensitive skin behind your ear.

It’s heady, potent, a mix of heavy breaths and mingled want clashing into a nearly violent need. A different kind of greed than that of desire for wealth, desire for love or affection- but instead something rawer. Unbridled, weighty lust.

You barely get a glance around the costly expanse of his bedroom as you’re grabbing at his shoulders, directing him in a pivot until the back of his knees hit the edge of his king-sized mattress. You gently yet imperatively shove him back onto his bed, the silk sheets shifting with his weight as he lands back against them, his arms falling away from you.

He moves further up the pillows as you climb up onto the prodigious bed to join him, thighs framing his waist. His eyes draw up your bare frame towards you, inky black, his pupils swallowing out the brown of his irises almost completely in the soft lighting and in the consummation of his want.

His hands settle around your waist, squeezing as you dip down to press a swift kiss against his lips, your breasts squishing against his chest whilst your fingers slide down and tangle with his half-open belt, looping it finally through the fabric, before flicking it to the side. You nibble at his bottom lip before pulling away and unbuttoning his pants, zipping them down. You slide down briefly to urge and tug the fabric away from his legs, whilst he takes measure to tug his long-sleeved top over his head.

You crawl back over him, legs straddling his hips, your hands dropping to splay over the broad, warmth expanse of his exposed chest, his body left in just his boxers beneath you, an inviting happy trail of darkened brown hair littered above the waistband. Licentiously, you roll your hips down into him, dragging the soaked state of your core over the bulge of his boxers, making his cock twitch beneath the fabric, a groan rumbling from his chest.

“Fuck, honey,” He huffs, head falling back into the pillows, hands gripping your waist as you move against him in a teasing downwards grind, a carefully precise rhythm. “Can’t wait to have that sweet little cunt wrapped around me.”

You bite down against your swollen bottom lip, body straining with arousal, and hook your fingers through the waistband of his boxers, dragging them down his thighs, swiping them off his legs. Your throat tightens. His cock, thick and throbbing, slaps up against his stomach, the tip red and engorged, dripping a bead of translucent pre-come onto his belly, his balls full and heavy between his thighs. He keeps his gaze settled on you as you gawk like a renaissance painting; his eyes needy, dark, hungry. Unrestrained.

You exhale shakily, hand gliding down to curl around the base of him, manicured nails delicately smoothing over the sensitive, soft skin. You give him the smallest pump with your fist loosely clenched, and his cock twitches in your grip, hipbones flexing beneath you.

“Gotta be honest. M’ not gonna last if you tease me like that, baby,” He rasps sincerely, lips spreading with a rugged exhale like he’s struggling to contain himself and this bubbling need threatening to boil over between you. The confession only sends electrified wire sizzling along your veins in the form of arousal, and you nod in acknowledgement quickly, lifting your hips. You squeeze gently at the base of him, angling his cock until it’s nudging against your entrance.

“There you go,” He breathes, exhaling out through his nostrils, whilst you tilt your hips slightly, slowly sinking down onto his thickness. Your mouth dries at the sheer size of him stretching your clenching walls, jaw falling slack as your hips roll, determinedly swaying down until he’s entirely sheathed inside you to the hilt. You both sound a simultaneous groan of thrill, his brows pinched with concentration as he gives you time to adjust, your hips continuing to absently swirl in circles as the prior dull pain swiftly bleeds out into pleasure, hooking into the base of your spine like a hook.

His jaw works in a grating clench when you tighten around him as you slowly lift your hips, as though your body is trying to keep him inside you. You raise until just his tip is notched inside you, before you’re sinking back down. Slow, steady, his cock curving against the deepest part of you, nudging against that soft, sensitive place that makes your eyes roll back into your skull.

You gradually begin to increase the pace, elevating your hips just to drop back down on him, repeatedly stretching yourself over his girth. His gaze hops over you like he doesn’t know where to settle his attention on; your tits bouncing with your steady pace, the slick of his cock as he’s sheathed in and out of your gripping pussy, folds spreading around him, the inviting line of your neck pulsing as your hips roll. He finally settles on your face, captivated in watching the way your eyes twist with bliss, pleasure striking up along your body, your thighs squeezing around his waist.

“Fuck.. look at you,” He pants, his hands curling tighter around your waist, aiding you, guiding your hips into a slightly firmer tempo. “Look like a goddess on top of me. Like a bloody gift sent just for me.”

You whimper, nodding quickly, cunt squeezing around him, egging him on.

“So pretty taking this cock,” He mumbles mindlessly, eyes drawing to watch where you take him again, your inner thighs quivering. Your fingers curl against his chest, nails digging soft, crescent moons into his skin as you heave yourself up, before slamming down harsher, both of you moaning wantonly at the pressure. Your ass begins to slap wetly back onto his thighs as you rise and fall quickly, your back arching each time his cockhead brushes and prods into your G-spot.

“Other guy doesn’t know what he missed out on,” Harry husks, eyes drawing a searing line up your body as if he’s mapping you out, committing you to memory. His hips sway, grinding himself up to meet your repeated dropping motions, rolling himself flush into you each time. He chuckles, the noise strained with pleasure. “I can’t say I’m that sympathetic for him, though.”

His hands smooth further up along your curves, before he’s hiking himself up enough to wrap his arms around your body, your chest arching into his. You buck down into him, his face burying against the crook of your neck, breathing hot and rasped against your skin, your pulse fluttering frantically beneath it, tensing with each shameless moan that crawls out from your throat.

“Get it all to myself, huh?” He mumbles, sucking against that spot he left on your collarbone earlier, darkening it further, the bruise blooming with red and violet, like a stain against your skin you currently wear with unadulterated pride. Your cunt makes a vulgar, moist squelching sound around him as you jerk yourself onto his cock, riding his lap with a lacerating wildness.

“Yes, baby, fuck- like that,” He moans, tilting his head back to peer up at you, his blackened-out eyes shimmering with lust and something bordering on worship. “S’ all for me, yeah?”

“Mhmm- yes, all you,” You agree haplessly, your tits jerking with your body as you bounce on his dick, chasing that twist you already feel pulverising and chewing at the frayed edges of your burning bliss.

His hand dips down between you, the tips of his fingers consciously rubbing sternly over the engorged swell of your sensitive clit that’s peeking out beneath the hood. You jolt at the added stimulation, pace stumbling, and Harry takes the chance to curl his robust arms tighter around your frame, and before you can process his movement, your vision is whirling in a blinded blur as he flips you both, his cock still impaled in you. He lowers you down into the cushiony comfort of the mattress, silk spilling out around your head.

“You’ve had your turn,” He says with a crooked smirk, dipping his head down to bite gently at the edge of your chin. You go to grumble in petulant protest, but he cuts the sound off from the tip of your tongue with an unyielding, borderline harsh thrust into you, silencing you with his cock.

He repeats the action, slower this time, letting you feel the ridge and veins of his length, sliding through your slick, sensitive walls. Grinding down into you, that coarse thatch of curls at the base of him that’s slowly greying rubbing against your swollen clit peeking out from beneath the hood. You sound a rapturous, libidinous moan, head falling back into the pillows and chest arching upwards with a heave.

His hips jerk at the sight, before restraint snaps like a thread untying, the chain unsnapping that shielded the rabid dog to the pillar. He slams into you, hips slapping wetly against yours, cock plunging into you with brisk speed, firm.

“Yeah, you can take it, can’t you baby?” He moans in a gruff rumble, a sheen of sweat tilting over his temple. “So fuckin’ good. Feel so good wrapped around me- better than I imagined.”

You whimper, arms looping beneath his, hands curling over to his back. You dig your nails deeper into his skin than you meant to, leaving dim, red marks down the length of his back. But he doesn’t seem deterred- if anything, it spurs him on to pound into you swifter, relentless.

“So sweet and wet,” He mumbles more to himself than you, fucking you into his mattress. “Dripping all over my cock, aren’t you?”

His hasty, muttered questions are rhetoric, slipping from his lips like the drip of honey, curdling with sweetness. You couldn’t think to answer even if you wanted to anyways, shameless moans pouring from you in tumbling sways of bliss, body sliding up the bed with each jackhammering thrust of his hips.

You squeeze around him, legs loosely splayed wide for him to pummel into you, cunt slick and hot around his throbbing length, your face flushed and hair splaying widely around your head on his pillows. His hands settle on either side of your head, his eyes settling on yours intensely as his hips swing into yours, his eyebrows saddled with focus, dense breaths and groans drawing out of him. His chest shines with a thin line of sweat, his biceps flexing and the veins in his forearms bulging as he bucks himself forward, fucking you ruthlessly.

It’s shameless, a tangle of bodies and limbs that intertwine like second nature, like your frames automatically blend into each other. As if you hadn’t just met tonight, starting as strangers when you were both meant to grovel around in your own solitary. As if you were both molded to be here; with you beneath him, his cock hammering into your pulsating hole.

“Fuck, m’ not gonna last much longer,” He admits, glancing down between you to watch where your abdomen rolls to grind your hips up into his sharp, plunging thrusts. “You gonna come for me, baby?”

Your mouth feels numb, eyes glazed over with the pleasure that curdles along you. But you nod eagerly, nails digging further into his flesh. He pants, using the last of his renowned energy to buck harder into you, chasing you both to those releases burning through your blood, sizzling to an unstoppable height before it captures the pair of you.

His head drops down, forehead pressing to yours, your mingled noises tangling in the heated air between your mouths.

“Go on, honey. Come for me. Let me feel you squeezing me,” He mutters frantically, and his mumbled coaxing that rasps past your ears are the final length that stretches before that release curls around your veins, splashing like liquid ecstasy through you. Your mouth catches open in a noiseless whine, your eyes rolling back into your head.

Your thighs clamp around his waist, cunt tightening around him before spasming, juices slicking over him in streams, dripping down to his balls and smearing each time they slap against the curve of your ass. He sounds a groan that sounds pained, his hips stuttering in their pace as your walls squeeze and flutter like they’re trying to milk him of everything he’s worth.

“Fuck. That’s it, that’s it, so good for me-” He groans jarringly whilst you mewl hopelessly, hips bucking up. His thrusts turn erratic, uncoordinated as he unceremoniously chases his own orgasm, slamming down into you with propelling hips, sinful, the force staggering.

His mouth pinches in effort as your cunt slicks another gush around him, and with a hiss of restraint, he pulls himself out of your wet embrace at the last moment. His hand hastily dipping down to wrap around himself, length soaked and throbbing. He barely pumps himself once before his thighs are locking up, a trembling moan that whisks off into a whimper as the bliss hits him squarely in the gut, and his cock is jumping in his hold, ropes of thick white painting over your stomach in ropes of heat, nearly reaching your breasts.

You squirm, limbs aching, dipping your chin down towards your chest to see where he weakly strokes over his cock to milk out the last of his come, which dribbles down to your mound, warm and smooth and sticky.

For a moment, the only sound in the room is the hoarse panting of your shared breaths as you both reel through the after effects, foreheads still pressed together. Your eyes flutter closed, body sated, a content afterglow burning low through you. You feel him shift above you, dipping his hand down to your stomach.

Slowly, reverently in a way that feels nearly pious, he swipes a thick finger through the layer of his come on your belly, smearing it over your skin and collecting it on the pad of his digit. And then-

He’s carefully lifting it up between your warm bodies to your parted, swollen mouth. His finger taps softly against your bottom lip, coaxing your eyes open to meet his. They’re still dark, inky, but there’s a softer kind of benevolence swimming through them now, tender.

You swipe your tongue out to collect his come from the tip of his finger, letting your jaw fall slack as he guides it into your mouth. You moan softly at the salty taste of him, stifled as you curl your lips around his finger, sucking the essence of his release right from his skin. You hear his breath hitch as he laboriously slides his finger out again, swiping over your bottom lip. A beat passes before he’s dipping down and pressing his mouth to yours, tasting himself on you.

The kiss is delicate, still amorous but with a fondness burning through it. He pulls back, his tongue carefully swiping over his lower lip like he’s relishing the flavour of both of you combined, your need like a physical, potent taste.

He gives you an unhurried, warm smile, before his hefty body is moving from atop you, and he’s dragging himself off the bed with strained, exhausted movements. You exhale shakily into the slightly humid air, your skin gradually cooling as he pads into the connected ensuite. You hear the tap running as the room lulls around you, head drooping to the side, eyelids feeling heavy.

He returns a moment later, crawling to your side. You almost jolt as the warmth of a damp washcloth meets your sensitive skin. He prods it gently over your stomach, cleaning his own release from you, padding it gently against your sore, puffy core. His movements are nothing short of reverent.

He carelessly chucks the rag onto the floor, before he’s maneuvering your body onto your side, settling down behind you, his brawny arm curling around your waist, your arms tucking in front of you. His fingers brush against your wrist as his body presses into yours from behind, broad and assured.

For a while, neither of you speak, simply relishing in the afterglow that drapes over you like a blanket, especially after Harry moves the glossy silk of the sheet over the two of you, the coolness inviting on your warm skin. Consoling, he presses a slow kiss against the curve of your shoulder from behind.

“You know, I’d like to invest further in this, if you’d be so kind as to allow me,” He murmurs into your skin, careful but unhesitant in his decision. There’s a tinge of amusement intertwined with his tone at the inane ridiculousness of the continued jesting metaphors of a business transaction being shared between you.

“What are you offering?” You whisper back into the dull smoothness of his lavish bedroom, a knowing smile lilting up the corner of your lips. You feel his own mouth upturn in a grin against you.

“A second date. If you want it.”

You’re gladdened by the fact he can’t entirely see your face so you can shield the giddy, elated expression that tilts over your expression. Your heart thumping with a vertiginous stutter at the thought of going out on another date with Harry, to share precious time with him again.

Time where you’re both aren’t under the restraints and tensions of your jobs, where you can relish in the taste of each other, the feel of each other, the simpleness of comfort found within tenderness and lasting looks. A time in which you don’t have to be perfect- you can just be.

You tilt your head back, coaxing his face into the crook of your neck, hearing him inhale softly as he breathes you in, the scent of sex and something softer lingering in the air.

“That can definitely be arranged,” You answer, coyness blooming in your voice, but settled with an undeniable soft rawness. His arms tighten gently around you, the both of you ravelled in the other in his large bed, the milk-dipped moon waving somewhere high above the heights of colossal towers that loom like spires, the scintillating but gentle whisk of the city lights peeking into the room, something like nectar settled on the tips of your tongue, saccharine and honeyed, settling into the air like promise.

And now you think; when you return to work, maybe you actually will thank Rebecca for convincing you to go on that blind date.

“But I have infinite tenderness for you. I always will. All my life long.” - Blue Is the Warmest Color (2013)

Comments, reblogs and feedback are so gratefully appreciated! I’m slowly starting a tag list, so if you’d like to be added, let me know.

[musingsofheaven]

Need more rough hate sex with Patrick and reader but very challengers coded like maybe she’s art girlfriend and can’t stand Patrick and Patrick hates her because he wants Art to himself but one day they’re at a party or somewhere, get into it and then fuck?? Maybe Art turns up to the party and is standing outside the door while Patrick’s fucking reader into the sink and whispering filth in her ears while her boyfriends outside saying could he fuck you like this, does he make you cum, like proper unhinged filth freaky shit choking, hair pulling, she could slap him, I want it ALL

Could lowkey see it being more parts because maybe Art then gets back at her and fucks the shit out of her and isn’t so submissive and she’s egging him on about Patrick because she wants to be fucked like that and he gives in? He’s acting like her talking about Patrick fucking her isn’t making Art harder and closer to cumming hehehe

SOMETHING BORROWED.

summary: Art’s your boyfriend and you’re his girl. Everyone knows that, and everyone knows Patrick is his best friend. The thing is: he hates you, and you can’t stand him either. It should have stayed that way, but there’s a party. The bathroom exists and you don’t know why you let it happen.

pairings: patrick zweig x afab!reader x art donaldson

warnings: 14.9k words. mature themes. dubious consent. unprotected p in v. creampie. oral sex. recording. voyeurism undertones. manipulation. gaslighting. cheating / infidelity. power imbalance / toxic dynamics. degradation kink / verbal humiliation. rough sex. breeding kink. overstimulation. alcohol use. read & consume responsibly.

note: hey, i really enjoyed writing this and i apologize for the slow writing especially with the requests and this is way back from may, but i hope the person who requested it is still around and will see this. <3 planning to release it last last week but got busy and sick. but here it is!

It's always been Art and Patrick.

It always has been and is always going to stay that way. Too young when they crossed each other’s paths. It got too close fast, as if something had just clicked inside. And ever since that meeting, nothing has changed because the bond is so strong. Growing up together since they’re barely teens. Maybe it’s around 12 or 13. They don't really care about the specifics and it doesn’t really matter not when they know they have each other’s backs regardless of their differences. People know Art is the quiet one. The perfectionist. The focus. The precise movements. Patrick is the opposite. The mess. The reckless swings. The egotistical maniac. Structure and chaos, but they still got paired for doubles, and they haven't changed partners ever since. Art was in control, posture perfect, and footwork clean. Patrick was reckless, grinning, never playing the same way twice. Together, they made sense- muscle and bone, strike and spark.

They roomed together and shared almost everything except their racquets: that’s too intimate to share. Both boys don’t really talk about feelings, not their stuff. But they know the technique, half-language insults, and language they only see when you live together for so long. Live together to the point he taught Art to jerk off and mutter about how he’s doing it all wrong before he talks him through it and they do it together. Art listened, of course; he came hard even, but it was something they never talked about after they did it. Every boundary crossed, every look that lasted too long. They weren’t dating, weren’t friends, something closer, something worse.

At fifteen, people already see them as a problem. Coaches hate them because they are intense. Hated how much they are in sync. Hated how dependent on each other. They can’t breathe right if the other isn’t on the court. They can’t hit the ball right without the other’s focus shining through the noise in the court. They fought like hell but never stayed mad where it mattered. It wasn’t romantic. No one else saw them like that. It was just them, just fire and ice. Just Patrick and Art.

But at some point, some moments, it nearly broke open. Something. Just something. Patrick shoved too hard, and Ary said his name too softly before someone muttered, “Jesus, just fuck already,” and neither of them flinched at that. But nothing happened, not really, because they needed each other too much. They just coexist. Patrick knew Art was always going to be a star. The biggest of them all. He knows that he’s going to self-destruct at some point. But they still keep playing. They pretend nothing would come between them because that’s how things work.

And then after the blink of an eye, there’s college. It’s still good. The first months of college were better than they should’ve been. Got closer. Still in rhythm, roommates, doubles partners, orbiting each other like nothing had shifted. Same pattern, different zip code, free- until it started to change. Of course, it will. Art didn’t just slip away instantly. No. It happened slowly. Quiet. Small lies at first. Leaving too quickly after a practice. Always have a reason like “group project” or “just tired.” Harmless lies for some people, except that Patrick knew Art’s schedule down to the hour. They share a calendar that syncs their schedules, but Art’s lies kept coming- not dramatic, just consistent, which somehow made it worse.

Then one night when Patrick was strolling around the campus, he saw something. It’s already late. The campus is already emptied out besides the people walking back wobbly with their drunkass selves and some are sneaking out of their dorms. Thank god there’s no curfew in their building. He feels the coldness on his skin as he walks near the court. The buildings were already dark except for this one court that was still shining brightly. He slipped inside because it was supposed to be closed by now. He’s walking silently until he sees you.

You were kneeling in the dark, and Art was leaning back to the door while his hand was in your hair. His mouth parted like he just won another match. Patrick can see the way he’s thrusting in your mouth. The way his hips are rolling shallow while you work him inside your mouth slowly and wet as if you like it. Art is not loud. Probably knows the risk of being caught in public. So he just whispered your name, saying please, soft like a prayer, fingers flexing like he was trying not to fuck your mouth too fast.

Patrick stood frozen, breath locked in his chest as you pulled off with a slick sound, licked the tip, then sank back down like you wanted to be caught. This is inappropriate to watch your best friend getting ahead. Sure, he already knows what Art’s cock looks like. But it’s not like he wants to watch his sex life in front of him. But he stayed too long, long enough for it to be a mistake, then left without a sound, carrying the image like something he wasn’t supposed to keep.

Patrick didn’t bring it up, waiting for Art to say something. Art didn’t. So Patrick snapped. It itched something inside of him, so it just happened after a doubles win, adrenaline buzzing when Art said he was heading out early. Patrick didn’t look at him, just said flatly, “Are you seeing someone?” Art blinked and looked at Patrick too quickly, so he asked, “What?” Patrick dropped his towel, jaw tight. “You’ve been flaking for weeks. Are you seeing someone or not?”

Art gave the weakest shrug Patrick had ever seen. “Yeah. I guess.” Patrick’s jaw twitched. “You guess? Are you going to tell me her name?” Art said your name, and that was it. The girl on her knees has a name now on his mind. Suddenly, the ghost in Art’s schedule had a face, a mouth, and a memory Patrick couldn’t scrub out since that night. Still, he didn’t say anything about the court, about the lie. He just let it sit tight.

A week later, Art brought you to the dorm. Patrick was at his desk, halfway through typing something he didn’t care about, when Art strolled in like there hadn’t been tension for weeks. “You’ve met Patrick, right? ”Art asked. You smiled softly, practiced, like nothing was wrong. Patrick didn’t smile back. “Not really,” he said, flatly. “Saw him in the courts though.” That was it, no scene, no confrontation.

But when Art turned to drop his bag, Patrick looked at you, and you looked right back, hoping for something, but no smile, just a flicker of recognition. It wasn’t kindness. Just fire and ice, the start of something neither of you could walk back from. After that, it didn’t get easier. You kept showing up, not because Patrick wanted you there. He didn’t, but because Art did, always texting, pulling you closer like he couldn’t regulate without you. He missed your perfume on his pillows, your warmth in his sheets, and your shape in his sweatshirt.

Sometimes it was just a sleepy selfie with the caption “Wish you were here,” and you came every time. Art started bringing you to practice, like you were some part of a ritual, sitting in the bleachers remembering everything Art forgot. Patrick noticed, and he had these looks. They were loud and cold. Sometimes you will just catch him eyeing you like he’s playing percentage tennis, waiting for you to fuck up. His looks are like some timer that counts the minutes you have until you leave.

You’ve been telling yourself it wasn’t personal. Art warned you that Patrick didn’t trust easily and didn’t click with people unless they proved themselves. So you tried, letting him ignore you at diners when Art dragged you both out, sitting across from him pretending his silence didn’t scrape your skin. You let him order his 10 p.m. pancakes without judgment and tried small talk about matches or the weather or whatever bullshit conversation that feels so awkward. His answers are always dismissive and laced with taunt or boredom. There was this one time you offered him the food you’re eating and ike an asshole person he is: he just looked at you like he’s disgusted at the idea of sharing before saying that he doesn't like getting food with people he doesn't know.

And after that? You didn’t try at all. But you are stubborn, so another time, you brought him coffee, not as a peace offering, just as an act of kindness. You set it on the desk, sealed, untouched. He didn’t look up. “What’d you do?” he asks, already assuming you are just here to ask something about Art. “What?” You just said before you look at him with that face you do when you're confused. “Don’t drink shit I didn’t pour myself.” Oh, so he's going the mean route again. “It’s sealed,” bored and assured even though you are so tired of it. “Then I don’t need it.” You should have just put poison in his drink when you knew he'd be like that.

What's annoying is he's always there. Always in the shadow of Art. Sometimes you will just catch him not wearing any shirt in the dorm and looking fresh out of the shower while he's pouring cereal and never saying good morning to you. It was worse because you always woke up first, Art’s arm heavy around your waist, warm against your back. You’d slide out quietly, hoping not to break the spell.

And every goddamn time, Patrick was already at the desk. Always. There. Jaw clenched, pretending not to notice you in Art’s t-shirt. You told yourself to let it go, to remember Patrick came first, that they had years, not weeks. You just have that thought in your mind that no matter how warm Art was, Patrick would always come before you. But it wore on you, the way Patrick didn’t just dislike you- he made you feel stupid for trying. And you hated that most.

And you didn't even mean to stay over that one night. You just kind of did. Something happened, and the something is Art acting so cute, so you just have to stay because he's already Art pulling a clean, warm shirt from his drawer for you to wear, looking at you like he missed you, like you hadn’t seen each other hours ago.

He just has this way of saying “stay” that will make your heart melt. You keep telling yourself it's okay because it's just Patrick. Just him. Lucky, right? If his roommate were another person, it would've been harder. You can even ignore him and not say hi or look. But this time he's already in his bed which is new because you are not used to seeing him already tucked in, and his limbs are hiding under the blanket. The room is okay and nothing has changed. You've been here many times.

Tonight it's just darker since Patrick went to bed earlier than usual and has that college-boy smell of detergent and sweat. There are twin beds, not side by side but close enough not to have any privacy. You sat on Art’s bed, pretending you belonged, telling yourself you’ll be just sleeping over. But it was after all lights are out that Art started touching you, his hand on your hip, sliding lower under the hem of his shirt on you.

His breath brushed your neck, palm flattening against your stomach, before slipping between your thighs. “Art,” you whispered, thin, hesitant, and careful. “He’s right there.” Your breath hitches when Art doesn’t stop. “And sleeping,” he murmured, pressing his body closer to you, “he’s not going to wake up, swear,” And you don't even know what that is supposed to mean right now especially his hand is already… going places. You really tried, brushing Art’s wrist like you could stop it before it got worse.

You sigh, insisting to him just to wait while he kisses your shoulder, and his hand cups your chest as he lines up behind you. “I don’t want to wait. I miss you,” he whispers. He’s quiet, but there’s seriousness and determination in his voice like the decision has been made. “Just be quiet.” Your thighs tensed, your lip caught between your teeth, and when he pushed in slowly, deep- you let him. You tried to keep your breathing shallow, tried to stay still, but it was too much, the way he rocked into you like you were something he earned. Your hand covered your mouth, head pressed into the mattress, just a few feet away from Patrick.

But he didn't react. Just staying still like a statue. He's not coughing. He's not moving around or rolling over. But you feel him. His presence. You feel his silence. You feel he's awake because it's your senses telling you that he's just pretending he's asleep while hearing every quiet sound of your slickness, every breath that you're holding back, but it slipped when Art found that deep, slow rhythm. You wondered if he heard the creak of the mattress under your hips, if he knew how wet you were, how shameless you’d gone for Art’s praise. When Art muttered, “Fuck, baby, you feel so good,” you didn’t hush him. You just took it slow, full thrusts dragging inside of you, his grip iron on your waist. Across the room, Patrick stayed silent, but you felt the heat of his attention even in the dark.

In the morning, you smiled at Patrick and said good morning like you hadn’t let his best friend fuck you while he pretended not to exist. And Patrick looked at you like he already had plans to make you regret it. After that, it got worse. Patrick didn’t start fights in front of Art or roll his eyes when there’s other people. He waited until Art left the room every time. One minute you’d be curled into Art’s side, and the next you’d feel it, that shift, that heavy quiet. Patrick would glance at you, scrolling on his phone, before dropping, “So you actually watch his matches now, or just the ones he wins?”

It was constant, the small cuts. The annoying one. That makes you want to punch him in the face, one. Late-night takeout when Patrick muttered, “Girls who can’t finish fries are more likely to cheat.” You stared, “What?” and he bit into his sandwich like he hadn’t said it on purpose. You tried to get ahead of it, asking about his matches and joking about his shoes. He shut it down every time. “Didn’t know I needed commentary from a cheerleader,” he’d say. Once, when you teased him for being late, he shot back, “Careful. You sound like someone who thinks she’s his coach and his girlfriend.”

The worst were the subtle ones. Passing you in the hall, muttering, “She reads now? God, he’s making a person out of you.” And Art kept smiling, kept pulling you closer, kept asking Patrick what he thought of you, and Patrick would shrug, “She’s fine,” which somehow hurt more than an insult. At parties, Patrick watched your face every time Art touched you, waiting for that flicker.

The first time you stepped onto the sand in Art’s hoodie and bikini, Patrick whistled, “You sure he’s the only one who gets to see that?” You rolled your eyes. “You’re disgusting.” He smirks at your insult at him, but he doesn't back down. “It’s a compliment.” Oh yeah, a compliment. What a nice one to name it. It’s fucking annoying that everything is just a joke. Always a joke to him. He never even tries to make it feel like a joke. Just make it hurt.

Because he's Patrick Zweig. He always makes you want to shoot his head. He would say something disgusting and dirty with a wink and provoke you until you felt a sick feeling in your stomach reacting. You tried showing Art you were uncomfortable, but Patrick was too quick. “She’s looking at me like she wants to fight,” he’d say lightly, and Art would laugh, “She’s all talk.”

So you’d swallow the heat in your cheeks, forced to laugh too, because what else could you do? Patrick would lean across the table, voice low, “Do you always wear gloss that is sticky, or just for him?” and you didn’t know if he wanted you to hate him or break first. It wasn’t immediate, that slow rot of it. At first, you were just Art’s girlfriend, tagging along, fading smiles, waiting through practice.

Patrick was just the roommate, the doubles partner with a jaw that never unclenched. You thought it was shyness. It wasn’t, not when he started with those glances that are too long and a shoulder bump that wasn’t friendly. Art didn’t notice, pulling you in with a laugh, saying, “You two are getting along now, huh?” You’d smile. Patrick wouldn’t, eyes pinned on you until your skin burned, pretending to listen to Art but never looking away.

You tried matching Art’s warmth, laughing when Patrick jokes, and asking polite questions. But every time, he punished you for trying. You asked if he liked your necklace. He didn’t look, just said, “Doesn’t seem like your style,” and walked away. You offered him gum in the car, and he took it, chewed, then said, “Tastes like lip gloss.” You rolled your eyes, and he grinned like it was all a game you were already losing. Then came the touches, small and deniable.

Under the table at dinner, his foot tapped your ankle- and stayed. When you moved, he followed. When you shifted, he shifted. Once, waiting for Art to change, Patrick brushed your hip as he passed. Not an accident, not casual, just enough to make you freeze before he kept walking like nothing happened. Then he got bolder. It happened during lunch months back when Art was so late and Patrick just stared at you. He's just staring at what you're doing while you can feel his knee contact with yours.

So you glare at him, I'm but his response to you is just to tilt his head and raise an eyebrow. “Relax. Art said you were friendly.” Later, he knocked your book off the arm just to make you bend. When you muttered, he smirked, “What? You’ve bent lower.” Your face went hot, throat tight, but he didn’t blink. Every time he stopped, the second Art walked back in. Like clockwork. Like he knew you’d never say anything- and liked it that way.

Art believed it all, the performances, the way Patrick would smirk and call you “princess” like a joke. The way he’d whistle when you wore something short before turning it into a compliment about “Art’s taste.” He knew how to turn it off the second Art looked, but you felt it every time. The way he leaned close, voice low, calling you by name like it tasted good. The way his hand lingered on your waist, your arm, that live-wire space between your ribs and hip. Art never saw it, not how Patrick always found a way to be alone with you.

Even if all Patrick said was, “Wearing perfume, or is that for Art?” Or grabbing your wrist a little too tight, muttering, “You don’t smell like someone who’s taken.” You hated him. Hated how good he was at being a dick in the most protected way. Hated how your face went hot when he looked at you like he knew something you didn’t want to admit. Hated how you could never tell if he wanted to mess with you- or if he already had.

And now here you are, in a frat house that’s massive in that old money and school legacy way. Hiding deep on campus, past the tennis courts, just there, arm enough that no one who’d care would notice. Finals over, music too loud, drinks too strong, strobe lights and smoke in every room. No one’s taking photos. No one’s snitching. Art’s hand finds your back the second you walk in, calm, guiding, no words needed. He belongs here, and so does Patrick.

Inside, it's limbs and liquor, beer pong and jungle juice, rooms pulsing with bass. Patrick’s there, leaning against the stair rail in a white tee, drink in hand, eyes dragging up your legs the second you walk in, but Art doesn’t notice. You do. You saw him watching you long enough to make you not surprised. A corner of the living room is claimed, drinks scattered, ash on the rug. Art sinks into the couch; you follow, his arm around your shoulders.

People you know sprawl around, someone on the floor, another perched on the armrest with a blunt. Patrick’s across from you, legs spread, drink on his thigh, watching, mouth twitching when your laugh softens. Someone passes a joint to Art, but he waves it off, Patrick taking it instead, smoke rolling slowly like a performance. “Didn’t know you were a lightweight,” Patrick says, and someone scoffs, “He’s boring when he’s in love.” Art pulls you closer, but your eyes are on the person who dares to say that. “Can’t risk losing my girl doing all of that shit.” Laughter, clinking cups, your face warm as you smile.

Patrick’s still watching. “Cute,” he says, flatly, and smirks a little at you when he sees that subtle reaction you made. “Bet she’s the type to throw up after one shot and still ask for another.” You don’t look at him because you know he'll just insult you. “Better than crying in a hallway ‘cause you lost pong,” so yeah, you know how to talk in front of him now without caring about who he is in Art’s life. Low “oooh” across the room, Art laughing, “She’s got a bite, huh? ”Patrick smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He sips his drink like it’s the last word but never stops looking at you.

You don’t even notice how packed the place has gotten, bodies everywhere, the air thick with weed, sweat, and something sugary. You’re on the couch between Art and a girl from the women’s team, skin warm, your skirt riding up, mesh top clinging, no bra, but you feel comfortable. Every time you lean forward, you feel Patrick’s gaze drag like teeth. Of course, he saw everything: Art’s hand on your back, your gloss fresh, your laugh bright, glowing like a star. And Patrick watches like he’s solving a problem that keeps smiling back.

Drink after drink, it's already past midnight, drinks are stronger, and the room is looser. Art’s warm, soft, leaning into you with a quiet murmur that makes the girl next to you giggle. You tuck closer, but his gaze is still there, flicking from your mouth to your lap to where Art’s hand keeps creeping higher. Art’s fingers slide beneath your skirt like he doesn’t even realize it, his mouth brushing your shoulder, the couch creaking under your weight.

Someone cracks a joke, laughter bouncing, but none of it touches your space. Just Art. He is being more clingy. More affectionate. More touchy, even if this is a public space. Art hums, pulling you closer, palm flat on your stomach. “Smell good,” he mumbles, and your eyes flick to Patrick before you move closer to your boyfriend. Patrick’s already looking sharp, leaning forward before a crooked smile flashes across his face.

You shift, drink empty, Art’s knuckles ghosting under your top, Patrick’s eyes locked on you, never looking away. The room spins in that syrupy, almost-drunk way, Art’s thumb drawing circles on your thigh. You murmur, “Bathroom, just a sec,” and he barely nods, distracted, lips brushing your temple again. When you stand, you straighten your skirt, and your top is still smooth while your heels click as you walk away from the scene. You feel eyes follow you, but you just continue.

He drains the last of his drink, sets the cup down, jaw tight, shoulders loose, still in that same seat. Until now. Art glances over to him, “Where are you going? ”Patrick shrugs, chin tipping toward the stairs. “Thought I saw someone I liked.” Art laughs, oblivious about what he's about to do. “You’re shameless.” Patrick smirks, “You say that like it’s new.” That’s it. Art doesn’t think twice; why would he? It’s Patrick, always fucking around. He always has girls in his arms. He doesn’t notice the way Patrick’s eyes track you, the heat in his step. He doesn’t know you’re the only one who went upstairs at this moment. But the bastard is already halfway to the stairs. He has this smile that you don’t know if you will get annoyed or not. He’s really confident like he’s really following someone he likes.

You closed the door when you reached the bathroom and didn’t slam it, but loud enough to make a sound. You locked it and the party sounds are not that loud inside but still bang against the wall because of the loud volume. The overhead light is too bright, gloss smudged, your neck sticky where Art kissed you, slow and tipsy, leaving his hand on your thigh too long. You don’t even need to pee; you just need a breath. You need a mirror, an excuse to get away from the couch, from Art’s heat, from the weight of Patrick’s stare across the room. You can still feel it, that look, how it drags over your skin no matter how crowded it gets. You swipe gloss over your bottom lip, steady, ignoring the trembling in your fingers, refusing to look like you’re hiding.

But of course, you’re not alone for long. He wants to break your peace too quickly, like a leech. Footsteps creak on the stairs, familiar enough that your jaw tenses before the knock even comes. It’s casual, like he owns the hallway. “Are you done yet? ” he calls, rough and flat, like he’s bored already while continuing to knock. “It’s occupied.” A pause, then, “Need to piss.” You roll your eyes, like… he can pick the other bathroom, and he's here. “There’s another one downstairs.” You stated that because he's just finding an excuse now, you feel it. “Line’s long. This one’s closer.” You roll your eyes, voice cool, “Sounds like a problem.”

Another knock, slower, just rhythm, toying with you. “Jesus. Chill out. Do your makeup or whatever while I take a piss. Just don’t look.” Your laugh is sharp. He's so unbelievable. So fucked up. Such an asshole. Really. “What makes you think I want to see you piss?” You are silent after that, and then there's the smug, nasty energy before it even lands. “You weren’t that shy when you were on your knees choking on my best friend’s cock.” You go still, heat climbing your neck, not shame- anger. Your hand slides to the lock, calm, opening the door slowly, steadily, and you look at him like you're sending him to his grave.

“Get a new obsession,” you say, voice flat, and face the mirror again like this is making you so bored. “That one’s old.” He pouts while he leans against the frame. He has this fake innocent look as he watches you. “It’s just an inside joke, chill,” Your fingers curl tight because what the fuck you supposed to feel when the inside joke is you giving your boyfriend a head? “You should focus your attention on someone who cares.” His smirk just widens like he's happy at what he heard. “Nice, cool. Don't give a fuck? Said by a girl who’s desperate for my attention.”

The door clicks shut when he finally goes inside. You stay by the sink, eyes on your reflection, gloss faded, concealer patchy, ignoring him. He unzips and starts pissing like it’s a show. You keep your focus on your mouth, the shape of your lips, dragging gloss back over them, top then bottom, careful, precise. The toilet flushes- zip, shift, maybe a shake. You couldn't care less anyway, so you just open your concealer and put some more underneath your eyes. You ignore the way there's tension because there's not.

There’s no warning or playing around when you feel him behind you. He’s like pressing his body against your back. So god forbid a girl needs a warning because maybe you don’t want his lips too close to you. Imagine if you move a little then your ass is pressing to his crotch. Yeah, imagine if you bend a little too. But what makes you jumpy is when his arms are between your legs against him when he slides them to open the faucet in front of you. Oh. Oh… Okay, that's a little embarrassing because he's just going to clean his hands, right? Water runs, splashing against the basin, while his other hand braces on the counter, caging you in. He washes his hands slowly, deliberately, letting droplets flick against your wrist. You keep dabbing concealer, acting untouched.

His hips press, casual, denim brushing the hem of your skirt. His shoulders brush yours every time he moves, steady, taking space like he’s testing how much you’ll tolerate. “Didn’t peg you for the type who fixes her face before she gets fucked,” he says, low and smooth. You don’t blink. “Didn’t peg you for the type who needs a mirror to feel tall.” A quiet huff of laughter, his breath warm against your temple. “Cute.”

You uncap your powder compact, pressing it against your cheek, ignoring the way his eyes drag down your reflection. “I saw how he was touching you downstairs,” Patrick murmurs, his voice closer, almost gentle, like a knife pressed flat. “Hands on your thighs, your waist. Let me guess- he fingers you under the blanket at parties, doesn’t he? Gets off on pretending no one knows.” Your jaw tightens, but you keep patting powder, ignoring the static crawling up your spine.

When he shifts, you can feel his hips now aligning with you. You could feel the way his jeans dragged slowly to your ass. “You let him fuck you in public like that, but up here, you need a minute alone?” You close the compact, lining your gloss and concealer on the sink, acting in control. “You talk a lot for someone who pisses like a drunk frat boy.” You stated, and you heard his voice drop when he answered that statement, teeth behind every syllable. “I’m just trying to understand. Is it that you like it soft? Or is it just that he can’t give you anything else? ”

You inhale, slow, measured, nails tapping marble. “Tell me,” he adds, lower, “does he even make you come?” You slam the gloss cap angrily as you turn slowly, back pressing into the sink, chin lifted. “I’m going to tell him you pissed on your hands and got water on my concealer.” He doesn’t flinch, leaning in, breath warm by your cheek, eyes on your mouth. “You know what’s wild?” he murmurs, voice curling dark. “Out of every girl begging for him, every future he could’ve chased- he ends up with you. And suddenly he forgets how to fucking win.”

You swipe gloss over your bottom lip, refusing to give him anything. His eyes track your mouth like he can’t help himself to watch you do that, especially if you have good lips. But he's a jerk, so it will not be the reason not to piss you off more. “Kind of tragic,” he continues, soft, lazy, and cruel. “The second he starts getting regular pussy, he stops showing up. Skips lifts, misses drills, can’t string a racquet without help.” Your lip twitches; you smooth it with your finger, eyes hard. “You must be proud,” he says, leaning closer, “ruined a whole prodigy with your legs spread.”

“Bet he tells you he’s lucky,” Patrick goes on, his voice darkening, soft enough to sink under your skin. “Bet he looks at you like you’re the reason he breathes, like you didn’t drag him off court into some pathetic boyfriend fantasy.” Your fingers press into the marble, gloss trembling. “Letting him fuck you in that dorm bed like it means something,” he says, “like moaning for him while I’m a few feet away doesn’t make you a joke.” Your throat shifts, but you don’t respond.

“Jesus, he fucks you like you’re made of glass,” Patrick adds, and that one slices deep. “You don’t want to be soft. You want someone who’ll grab you by the throat and ruin you. You want someone who’ll make you cry just to see how far he can take it. You want it to mean something. Don’t pretend you don’t.” You still don’t move, but he knows he’s winning, peeling you open layer by layer, and you hate him for it. You hate what he's doing right now. You hate him saying all of this bullshit.

Then softer, meaner, pressing close: “And I don’t even think you’re fixing your makeup for him.” You freeze, air stuck in your chest as you wait for his next words. “I think you’re fixing it for me.” His breath warms your cheek, that half-smirk in your periphery. “You want me to see it,” he says, low, patient, “want me to remember how pretty your mouth looked the first time I saw it full of his cock?”

Your fingers dig into the sink, shoulders tense, gloss still trembling on the marble. “You were so into it,” Patrick adds, grin slow and ugly, “down on your knees like some trophy whore with a mission, all devoted, like blowing him in the dark made you better than me.” Your jaw locks. “You came up here to feel clean again, didn’t you? ” he murmurs, voice almost soft. “But it’s still all over you, and we both know it.” Then, quiet, final, like dragging a match across the edge: “He’s the one getting your mouth. But I'll be the one to ruin it once we're finished.”

That’s the moment. Anger got deeper, hot in your throat, and you shoved him with both hands, teeth bared, in blind rage. He stumbles half a step, laughing under his breath, like it excites him. “Fuck you,” you spit, voice shaking. You glare at him while he still has that smug look on his face. Your hand slaps him before you even realize it. Your palm touches his cheek, hard. You feel it sting, and it leaves a red reaction on his cheek. His head turns a little to the action, but he just lets it happen and doesn't say anything. He's now talking to you, and he has something dark sparking in his eyes. Then he exhales, a wrecked grin barely holding. “There she is.”

Your hand hurts. You are not used to slapping people out of anger. Yeah, no shit, it's stinging a little. You practice your breathing while you're doing many activities. Cheeks are flushed and raw. Regardless of all of it, he still looks at you like it proved something, like it confirmed what he’s always known. “I’ve tried to be nice to you,” you say, low, shaking, eyes locked on him. “I fucking have.” His head tilts like it’s funny, like he’s indulging you, silent while you unravel. “I’ve let you get away with so much,” you continue, voice rising. “Because you’re Art’s friend. Because I thought if I ignored it, you’d get over it.”

Your chest heaves, heat crawling up your neck. “I didn’t tell him about the shit you’ve said when he wasn’t around. Or the way you touched my leg when you thought he couldn’t see. Or the way you look at me.” Your voice hardens, steady and cold. “You’re lucky, Patrick. Lucky I didn’t blow it all up the first time you opened your mouth. Lucky I kept it quiet. You think I couldn’t ruin you? ” He exhales slowly, the grin that follows calm and cruel, predictable. “As if he’d believe you.”

You freeze, the dismissal hitting harder than anything else tonight. His tone is light, like it’s obvious. He leans in, breath brushing your cheek, voice low. “You really think he’d believe you?” he murmurs. “The girlfriend who flirts with me when he’s out of the room? Who makes a scene every time I look at her, like she likes being watched?” Your jaw clenches, hands shaking. “He believes me,” Patrick finishes, no smirk this time, just that cold certainty. “Always has.”

Before you can speak, he moves. He grabs your wrists without warning and pins them down on the marble. Making you feel closed and caged in there with his body crowding you without any space left. His action made you unable to catch your breath; it was sudden and shocked you. You feel his grip tightening and rough enough to show you he has the upper hand, not you. He leans in like he might whisper something gentle, but nothing about Patrick Zweig is soft. “You are delusional to think he's going to believe you, because he's not,” he said, and he's pissed. His lips are so close to the point that you can feel the hotness of his breath against your face. “He’s not going to believe a single fucking thing you say about me.”

You turn your head, catching his eyes in the mirror, but he doesn’t look at you, too busy slicing. “You think he’d take your side over mine? Some girl he’s been fucking for what- eight months? Ten? Gets to undo everything? Rewrite the years?” His grip tightens, your wrists aching. “I’ve known him since before he had a serve. Before sponsors. Before he knew what to do with himself. We’ve roomed together, fought together, and won together. I’ve bled for him. I built him.”

Your laugh is bitter, breath hot. “You’re so fucking full of shit.” His mouth twitches. “And you’re so fucking temporary.” Your eyes narrow, your voice sharp, deadly. “This isn’t about Art believing me. It’s about you not being able to believe he chose me.” His eyes flick to yours, dangerous. “That’s what’s eating you alive, isn’t it?” You continue, breath catching. “That no matter how close you stand, no matter how much history you shove down everyone’s throat, he didn’t want you the way he wanted me.”

His face hardens, jaw tight, but he doesn’t interrupt, hands still locked around your wrists, body flush to yours. “You don’t hate me,” you said, almost challenging him. “I think you hate that you're not in my place,” you snap, and you are satisfied to see the crack in his expression when you said that because it's so fast- he got affected the moment you said those words. He clenched his jaw and took a deep breath, and you can feel the silence so loud it fills the whole bathroom. He leans in again, voice lower, scraped raw, closer than before. “I don’t want to be in your place,” he mutters. “I want to fuck you out of it.”

The moment lands, heavy, and then he moves- just a slow, steady shift of his hips, rough denim grinding against you, pressing close until your breath catches like a hook in your throat. His grip on your wrist doesn’t ease, body against you, cock dragging in you like he wants to wear you down one grind at a time. You hate how fast your body betrays you, how your thighs press together, how heat pools low in your stomach, shame curling with it. He feels it, of course he does, and the quiet, smug sound he lets out brands itself into your spine. “Didn’t even have to touch you yet,” he murmurs, not mocking- worse, admiring. “And you’re already squeezing your fucking legs like it’ll help.” You force your voice sharp, trying to cut through it. “Get the fuck off me-”

But you don’t believe it, not when he lets go of one wrist only to drag that hand down your side, slow enough you feel every inch. Over your ribs, pausing at your waist, gathering your skirt in his fist like he’s done it before, like he knows exactly what’s waiting. His palm grazes your inner thigh, heavy and possessive, and then it’s up, in, cupping you over your underwear like it’s nothing, like you’re nothing. Your breath catches too fast, and he groans because your body confirms everything he’s ever suspected about you. “Jesus,” he breathes. “He has no idea what he’s got, does he? Letting you walk around like this, untouched, leaking for the first person who calls you a slut.”

Your body burns, scraping up your throat like it has claws. “I’ll tell him,” you manage, voice shaking but jaw set. His hand stills for a moment against you. “I’ll tell Art. I’ll tell him you touched me, that you said all this shit, that you came in here and tried to-” You say too quickly, and your breath catches in your throat, making you not finish your sentence. “Tried?” Patrick laughs, sharp and slow, slicing you open. “You’re going to tell him I tried?” Your stomach turns, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s already pushing your panties aside like you never spoke, fingers slipping through the mess of you, dragging through your slick, and the stunned groan he lets out.

“You’re not going to tell him shit.” His breath is warm, calm, like it’s the harsh truth. Your breath hitches when his fingers drag up again, soaking and obscene in how easy it is for him to find how wet you are. “Because then you’d have to tell him the rest,” he murmurs, curling a finger, teasing without giving anything. “You’d have to tell him you stayed still. That you let me touch you. That you fucking liked it.” He chuckles when you arch and presses his hand unintentionally because your body is reacting to it. You feel the heat burning because of the anger, shame, and humiliation he's making you feel.

“You won’t say a word,” he stated and smiled at you because he's showing that you don't have a choice; it's said gently and softly, like a slap to your face. “Because you’re a cheating little whore who let me in.” Your breath hitches at his words before you shake your head. You're not a cheater. You're not. You're not an asshole like him who wants his girlfriend. You are not cheating on Art because you don't want it. You don't… right?

You can feel his hold on your wrist tighten, and he looks at your eyes while his other hand slips one knuckle deep and presses into you. “You let me in.” His voice is quiet, terrifying in its certainty, his hand dragging through your slick like it’s his reward for being right. Your hips twitch, betrayal hot and dizzying, the bathroom too small around the sound of your breathing. You react without thinking, twisting sharply, trying to shove him off, but he only smiles, hands shifting to your hips.

Before you can slap him, he moves, lifting you like it’s nothing, setting you down hard on the counter, cold marble against your ass. His chest crowds your knees, the bathroom buzzing with heat and light. You open your mouth to say many insults and curse him out and your legs are much more comfortable now. You took your chance anyway. You kick, distracted and your foot touches his stomach before you completely lose it. You just want to feel it, especially the kick. For a second, trembling, you think it’s over. Then he laughs, low and wrecked, half pain, half pleasure. “Oh, fuck, you’re really one of those.”

“You fight when you’re turned on, huh?” He taunts you and laughs while his eyes remain on you. “Kick me while I’m touching your pussy and expect me to believe you don’t want it?” You glare, chest heaving, anger in your throat, but he steps closer, wincing, still laughing. “Because I don’t,” you spit, shoving at him, but he’s already between your legs again, body heat rolling off him, oppressive. “No?” he mocks softly, tilting his head. “Then why are you soaked through your panties?”You try to slap him, but he catches your wrist midair, calm, practiced, eyes locked on yours, dark and vicious.

“You like it when I’m disgusting,” he says, voice low, almost tender. “You like it when I talk shit about your perfect little boyfriend. You want me to treat you like trash and fuck you stupid while you lie to his face.” You feel your pulse thrumming in your throat, and it's suffocating you. You don't look away as much, you try it because he keeps squeezing you every time you do it, and making your breath hitch. “You want it to be mean,” he adds. “So I’m going to give it to you.” His grip tightens, bruising where his fingers dig in, his cock hard against your inner thigh, breath ragged, ready, filthy with want. You’re perched on the cold counter, body flushed, heart hammering, thighs trembling- not with fear. With rage. With something worse than rage.

Before you can slap him, he moves, lifting you like it’s nothing, setting you down hard on the counter, cold marble against your ass. His chest crowds your knees, the bathroom buzzing with heat and light. You open your mouth to say many insults and curse him out but your legs are much more comfortable now. You took your chance anyway. You kick, distracted and your foot touches his stomach before you completely lose it. You just want to feel it, especially the kick. For a second, full of adrenaline, you think it’s over because he got the hint. Then he laughs, low and wrecked, half pain, half pleasure. “Oh, fuck, you’re really one of those.”

“You fight when you’re turned on, huh?” He taunts you and laughs while his eyes remain on you. “Kick me while I’m touching your pussy and expect me to believe you don’t want it?” You glare, chest heaving, anger in your throat, but he steps closer, wincing, still laughing. “Because I don’t,” you spit out, shoving at him, but he’s already between your legs again, body heat rolling off him, oppressive. “No?” he mocks softly, tilting his head. “Then why are you soaked through your panties?” You try to slap him, but he catches your wrist midair, calm, practiced, eyes locked on yours, dark and vicious.

“You like it when I’m disgusting,” he says, voice low, almost tender. “You like it when I talk shit about your perfect little boyfriend. You want me to treat you like trash and fuck you stupid while you lie to his face.” You feel your pulse thrumming in your throat and it's suffocating you. You don't look away as much, you try it because he keeps squeezing you every time you do it, and making your breath hitch. “You want it to be mean,” he adds. “So I’m going to give it to you.” His grip tightens, bruising where his fingers dig in, his cock hard against your inner thigh, breath ragged, ready, filthy with want. You’re perched on the cold counter, body flushed, heart hammering, thighs trembling- not with fear. With rage. With something worse than rage.

You’ve had enough. You look him dead in the eye, voice cold and flat. “You’re just pissed he gets to fuck this pussy and you don’t.” It’s not a tease, it’s a bullet, and you see the twitch in his jaw before his smile vanishes like you punched him harder than your foot ever could. It only lasts a second before twisting into something darker, unhinged. “Oh yeah?” he says, voice rough, all threat, before grabbing your thighs, harsh and fast, shoving them open so wide the counter edge bites your legs. He steps in, crowding you completely, hands spreading you like he’s got something to prove and no patience left to do it gently.

“I’m going to fuck it too,” he snarls. One hand yanks your panties down in one motion, dragging the soaked fabric past your knees like it offends him, like it proves every awful thing he’s ever said about you. He lets it drop to the floor and ignores it, like you never meant to keep it on. “You think letting him in first means anything to me? I’m still going to have a taste.” You glare at him because that's what you do. You always try not to react when he does something stupid. You try not to show how much he's getting under your skin and how naked you feel right now. You try not to make your thighs tremble worse than they're doing right now. You try not to feel something you refuse to name. You just hate him when he does something like this as if his breath is hot and close to your jaw, hands rough on your hips, voice low, “You let him in. Now you’re going to let me take it.”

Something in you snaps. Without even realizing it, you shoved him hard. But as expected, he barely moves an inch, he just waits for you to do more. So you just say something, “You better fuck me better than he does, or I’m telling him everything.” This is messy, you know that. You shouldn't give in, you also know that. But you are prideful and you refuse to back down from Patrick. He doesn’t laugh but he smiles, darker, breathes in like your words are the best thing he’s ever tasted. Then moves, reaching into his pocket without looking away. He flips open his phone, presses record, and points the camera at you.

“What the fuck are you-” you start, but he cuts you off. “I want you to remember this,” he says, voice low. “Have something to have in my memorabilia when you are playing good girlfriend to Art.” You watch him kneel in front of you and he opens your legs wider as he settles on the tile. His grip is not changing, it's still tight and firm, and his nails are digging. It's embarrassing actually how your panties are tangling at your ankles, and the heat of his breath is getting closer to where you want him. One hand holds the phone, the other slides up your leg, mapping out what’s his, eyes flicking up, not asking, just memorizing you.

“I want you to cum on my tongue,” he says like it's already decided and approved by you, “and then I’m going to make you watch it happen.” You just nod while you feel your breath stutter. You can’t speak because the words are dying on your tongue as his tongue drags across your inner thigh, slow and teasing like he's taunting you while making you twitch. He exhales and laughs like he feels everything building in your pulse, your shaking legs. Then, softer but dark enough to slice you open, he whispers, “Tell the camera.” You don’t move, breath caught, and shaking. “Tell him I made you forget his name.”

And with that, he buries his face between your legs like he’s been waiting forever. You’re shaking now as you watch him still filming, and you're trying to keep control like the words can keep your body in line- but it’s slipping. His mouth is too fucking good because goddamn, he's not just licking you like with what he use to other girls. You feel him learning. He's moving his tongue like he's remembering the shape and he's mapping you. He's learning every movement in your hips, every moan you are trying to swallow but fail, and he wants to own every sound you make. You don’t move at first, not when his breath ghosts over your thigh, not when his mouth hovers like he thinks he’s worshipping something.

You just reach down, fingers closing over the phone still in his hand, and when he doesn’t stop what you're doing, you snatch it. He doesn't even blink and lets you take it. You tilt the camera, angle it right, his face framed by your thighs, slick between them, nothing else. You press record. And you smile at him like there's a switch that just got turned on. “Look at you,” you murmur and mocking him. “On your knees for a girl you can’t fucking stand.” His tongue flicks over your mound and you don’t flinch.

“You talk all that shit about how I mess him up, how I made him soft, how I fucked up his game.” You tilt the phone to catch his mouth around your cunt, especially him licking your clit. “But here you are, pathetic, obsessed, tongue out like a fucking dog.” He groans when you call him that word while his mouth is open, tongue dragging up your slit like he’s trying to drown in it, like this is what he’s always wanted. You feel the heat and the mess, the way your body reacts, but you don’t let it show. Not yet. Not going to give him that satisfaction. “You pretend you hate me, but this is what you’ve been begging for.”

He grunts into your pussy, fingers digging into your thighs, tongue sloppy and eager. “God, listen to you,” you whisper, your voice hard even as your thighs tremble. “It’s embarrassing how you moan like it's the real cunt you've ever eaten.” His body shudders at that, his hips twitch like he wants to rut against the floor, like he's soaked inside his clothes and tip dripping. “You love this, don’t you?” You breathe, still filming, your grip steady. “Being on your knees, being used, being recorded like the pathetic freak you are.” His mouth closes around your clit, and your voice finally cracks, a sharp gasp tearing out as your legs shake.

But you keep going, shaking, spit-slick, and ruined. “You’ve wanted it since the first time you saw me fuck him,” you say, breath ragged, mean. “You wanted to know what I taste like when I’m thinking about someone else.” He groans, jaw working faster, tongue relentless, hitting perfectly, your body tightening and arching, moans wrecked. “You like taking people’s girlfriends,” you hiss, fisting his hair, grinding him into you. “Sick.” He whines, tongue moving like he needs it to live, humiliated and desperate.

You press the phone closer, making the angle worse for him and better for you. Through your own shaking, gasping moans, you whisper, “You better make me come so hard I forget his name.” He moves unexpectedly and his action made you jumpy because you can feel his grip tighten as he pulls your thighs even wider open to keep you in your place. Then his mouth close around your clit, and he sucks hard. Your whole body jolts like he shocked you, a sound catching in your throat before you can silence it. It spills out high, sharp, and raw- and he knows.

He groans against it which makes a vibration through the action as he does it with his tongue flicking and his lips dragging sloppy and relentlessly head to you. Like he’s giving you something no one ever gave you before. You choke on the moan, trying to keep it quiet, but it slips. “It feels- fuck- it feels good.” You freeze the second you hear yourself say it. He doesn’t. He moans into you again, louder, deeper, like it’s praise, tongue drawing slow circles, lips sucking hard, rhythm locked in, a wicked smirk pressed into your cunt like he just won the match point.

You try to yank his hair, to glare, to be mean or something, but he’s not having it. His tongue flicks faster, and you feel the orgasm building in your spine, and it’s inevitable. While he’s sucking- devouring- grinning- smug- piece of shit, because you slipped, because you admitted it felt good, and now he’s going to make sure you remember it. But instead of speeding up, instead of chasing your orgasm, he changes. Slow. Smooths out his movements like he’s changing lanes, like this isn’t just about your pleasure anymore. His tongue moves slowly, every stroke carved with intent which is to make you cum. A single line, then a curve, then a sharp flick.

You feel it in your thighs first, then your gut, your brain catching up. He’s spelling something. P…flick up, drag down across your clit. A… soft sweep, almost a shape. T… slow, pressing, obscene. Of course, you try not to give in like biting your lips but your body isn’t listening to what you want and keep bucking and your breath is like you are running in a marathon. And he keeps going. R… a drawn slowly, tongue curling to do the letter. I… just a short stroke, playful dot after. C… just a curl of his tongue from up to the left, like you’re drawing a rainbow. K… this letter is wetter, meaner, and worse than the last. You want to say his name to tell him to stop, but that’s the point. He wants it in your mouth.

He pulls back, mouth slick down to his chin, lips parted, eyes dark and shining when he says, “You feel that?” You’re panting, trembling, trying not to nod. “That’s me,” he says, smiling into your thigh before he bites it and sucks it a little. “That’s Patrick.” Then he leans in and spells it again, slow this time to taunt you as if he’s making fun of this situation because he’s making sure you’ll feel it when you sit, when you shower, when Art’s inside you and you can’t help but remember. Your hand slips, the phone drops down beside her, still recording every soaked, ruined sound echoing from the bathroom. It doesn’t matter anymore. You’re not acting for the camera, and you’re breathing but barely. Your hands clawing at the counter while Patrick’s mouth eats you down piece by piece.

He groans against your cunt, tongue dragging, jaw relentless, pulling back to speak, mouth hovering over your clit like a threat. “Jesus. You’ve got no shame,” he mutters. “This pussy’s unreal. And you waste it on him?” You try to breathe, shaking your head, but it doesn’t matter. He groans, tongue pressing flat and slow like he’s licking you clean, “He doesn’t deserve this. You let him touch you like it means something.” You whine and your legs twitch when his hold tightened and making them stay still and pinning you in place as if he knows you are getting a wobbly feeling.

“You like this, don’t you?” he asks, voice sharp, ugly but he’s smirking at the audacity of the situation. “You like cheating on him, lying to his face, then spreading your legs for me.” You kick your foot in the air but he just shuts it down by pinning it back where it was. You shake your head as his words get into you. “Shut up,” you gasp, but it’s weak, drowned out by the sound of your body soaking his mouth. “You don’t want love,” Patrick grunts, sucking your clit hard like it’s punishment. “You want this. You want to be fucked. You want to be used. You want me to fuck you while you still smell like his sheets.” You let out a broken cry, legs shaking, orgasm right there, hot and you can’t stop it.

“Say it,” he growls, licking you rougher, faster, and meaner. “Say you like cheating on him.” You can’t speak, mouth open, whimpers spilling instead of words. He pulls back just enough to say it again, meaner, louder, “Say. You like cheating on him.” Then he sucks, deep, long, and hard, and you shatter, coming with a sound that doesn’t sound like yours, body seizing, thighs clamping, voice cracking open into a moan that lives in shame. Just before it takes you under, before you lose everything, he says it, low, laughing, awful: “Fuck, listen to you. You’re coming like you were made to cheat.”

You’re shaking, hot and soaked, nerves frayed from being edged and denied, everything in you strung tight and aching. You didn’t realize how close you were until he ripped his mouth away, leaving you open, wanting, and ruined. Your thighs twitch, hips searching for contact, for anything. But he doesn’t give it. You watched him unbuckle his belt while his eyes were locked on you as you fell apart in front of him. You hear his zipper slowly slide down, metal sounds echoing and then he pulls out his cock from inside, it’s thick, flushed, already slick from watching you unravel.

You want to spit something, anything, but your mouth is dry, breath shallow, and hands braced against the counter like you’ll slide off if he touches you again. He steps forward, eyes on yours, stroking himself once, twice, dragging the head of his cock up your soaked slit. He doesn’t push in, just lets it rest there- heavy, hot, a promise. “You don’t like cheating?” he murmurs, soft enough to sound gentle but meant to make you sick. “Then what the fuck is this?” You open your mouth, but he moves before you can speak, cock rolling against you, dragging through slick that makes you both groan, your legs twitching wide.

“Say it,” he says, tongue pressed to his teeth, “Lie to me again. Tell me you don’t want this.” You can’t, not with how you’re pulsing, cunt clenching every time the head of his cock bumps your cunt, still twitching from the orgasm taken away from you. And he knows it. He presses forward- just the tip. He did it just close- enough for you to feel the first stretch, the first pulse of yes where there should be no. “You left him downstairs,” Patrick breathes, dragging the tip over your clit, slow and filthy. “Still sitting there. On that couch. Right where you told him you’d be back.”

His voice sounds jealous, and low. “He’s probably sipping that drink like a good boy, waiting, doesn’t even realize you’re up here dripping for me.” And downstairs there’s Art shifts on the couch, the party humming around him, laughter echoing off the tile. Someone bumps the couch, but barely hears it. He checks his phone. There’s nothing. No “on my way.” No “almost done.” Just silence. While upstairs, Patrick finally pushes in- not all the way but enough to make your body twitch, to watch your mouth part like it forgot how to lie.

His hand is on your hip, breath warm at your ear. “And you’re about to let me fuck the pussy he thinks is his.” You don’t reply to that but you don’t close your legs either. He takes that as a yes, sinking in with one long, thick slide until he’s buried to the base. Your back hits the mirror, your breath breaking on a moan you can’t hold back. It doesn’t matter. He starts to move, counter creaking under your hips, strokes slow, deep, and unforgiving. Your palms press back against the mirror behind you, breath catching as he fucks you. You try to stay quiet. You fail. “He’s going to find out,” you whisper, breathless. Patrick smirks, “No,” he murmurs back, “He’ll never know.” Then he fucks you harder.

The music keeps rolling somewhere below, a muffled thump under the sharp slap of skin, under the choked sounds you can’t hold back. But Art is still there. In the living room where you left him. The room is still glowing while he’s holding a cup with a drink he’s not going to drink anymore. And suddenly someone speaks, “She’ll be back,” but it doesn’t reach him, not really. His hand tightens on the cup. He’s moving before he even realizes it, stepping into the dark, following the ghost of your laughter, the shadow of your absence. Above him, Patrick continued his movements inside of you. His thrusts are heavy, cock dragging slow, pressing the guilt deeper with every stroke.

You’re shaking, trying not to say his name, but a moan slips out. Patrick groans. “If he finds out,” he says, voice sharp, fucking in harder, “it’s because you told him.” He grinds deeper, your hips jerking. “Otherwise, he’ll never fucking know.” And what both of you know is that he’s outside. He just stops in front of it after seeing the closed bathroom door with the light on. He doesn’t go to it, just stands, face changing slightly. He hears it- a thud, a breath, something wet, the sound of something.

In the bathroom, Patrick leans in, voice rough, dragging his cock deep with a thrust that makes your breath catch. “Are you going to tell him, huh?” he murmurs, teeth grazing your skin. “Are you going to walk out of here soaked in my cum and explain why you’re walking differently?” You choke on your moan, shaking your head, nails scraping the mirror. “Say it.” Your voice breaks, “Fuck- he’ll never know.” Patrick groans, hips stuttering as he slams back in, filthy and unforgiving, “That’s right.”

Art steps closer to the bathroom door. He doesn’t touch the handle, doesn’t knock, just stands there, listening. Because the sound behind it- low, steady, awful- doesn’t stop. Not when you whisper that Art might find out, not when your breath catches like it’s already too late. If anything, Patrick fucks you harder, grip tightening on your waist, jerking your hips back into every thrust like you’re nothing but leverage. Push you more over the counter, one of his hands flat palmed on the glasses while the other wraps around your hair. When he pulled, it earned a sound from your throat while your head snapped back, and your spine arched.

He leans in, his breath hot against your ear, “Think he could ever fuck you like this?” Patrick hisses, cock grinding deep, words soft enough to burn. You bite your lip, but he pulls harder, forcing your body to answer for you. “Think he could choke you the way you like?” His hand slides to your throat, wraps around it, pressing until your pulse hammers against his palm, the room going warm around the edges. “Poor Art,” he mutters, teeth scraping your jaw, “still out there thinking you’re his.” He fucks in harder, rhythm filthy enough to echo in the hall, sink creaking beneath you as you fail to swallow your moan. “He doesn’t even know how to ruin you,” Patrick snarls, hips snapping, “doesn’t even know how to keep you.”

“Go ahead. Slap me.” You do, twisting to crack your palm across his face, sharp and loud. It only makes him groan. “God,” he pants, “fucking knew you wanted this.” He thrusts in rougher, hands around your throat, not cutting off air- just making you take it. Outside, Art steps closer, frozen, head tilted, the party still happening behind him. At first, he tells himself it’s nothing- just other people. But it’s not working. He hears it all now, wet and steady, a slap, a moan that goes straight to the center of him.

His blood goes quiet, like something inside is holding its breath. His hand hovers near the knob but doesn’t move. And then he hears Patrick’s voice, low, ragged, and familiar in a way that tastes like a poison now. “Think he could ever fuck you like this?” It lands heavy, sour, and immediately. Almost like he’s saying this out of spite, but you don’t know if it’s to him or you. Then: “Doesn’t even know how to ruin you.” Art doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe. Then he hears you- your voice, soft, cracked, gutted, trying not to sound but still sounding. His hand twitches, but he doesn’t knock. He tells himself he should demand the truth, but his body doesn’t move.

Then he notices the pressure in his jeans, realization sinking as he gets hard. Which is sick not because he wants to or it’s real. Maybe it’s the irony of it. His girlfriend. His best friend. One bathroom. Noises are so filthy. He feels sick, but he’s still standing there. Then Patrick’s voice comes again, closer, deliberate: “You gonna walk back into that party full of me and lie to his fucking face?” Art’s lips part, but nothing comes out, his cock aching so hard it hurts. Inside, Patrick’s got you pressed against the sink, stuffed full, every thrust deliberate, designed to drag the truth out of you whether you speak it or not.

“Bet he’s out there,” Patrick mutters, grinding deep as if he already knows Art is outside. Maybe he just says that out of the thrill. He groans at the thought though with a big smirk on his face, “still waiting, still thinking you’re his.” You snap, slapping his chest, but he just laughs, fucking you deeper. “Keep going,” he breathes, “fight me.” He encourages and licks his lips while his hips continue to work and still smug. “I-I hngh… h-hate you,” you moan out, hands flatten to his chest to shove him off, but his hands tighten, dragging you back onto him. “No, you don’t,” he growls, thrusting roughly, the counter making sounds beneath you. Your nails digging at his forearm, nails deep, but he groans like he likes it. “G-get off me, P-pat,” you gasp, but you don’t stop him.

“You don’t want that either.” His voice is ragged, breathless, body is hot against you. You feel how deep he is, dragging through everything slick and tense, hating how your body responds. “I don’t even like y-you-” You gasp, breath catching, throwing your hands into his ribs. It lands hard. He grunts, but it only makes him moan, teeth flashing in a grin. “Fuck, you always get like this when you’re about to come?” You scratch down his shoulder, carving lines, and he groans, cock twitching. “God,” he breathes out, voice low and pleasured, “you’re hot when you’re pissed.”

“I swear to God I’m telling him-” you bite out, but Patrick laughs at that. “No, you’re not,” he pants, teeth at your shoulder, hand on your waist, pulling you back onto him like leverage. “Because you’re going to come for me first,” he breathes, “and then you’re going to lie.” Your cunt betrays you, tightening around him. “You think he’d still want you,” Patrick growls, “if he saw you like this?” You slam your palm into his chest, but he catches your wrist, grabbing your hair, yanking your head back until your spine arches, mouth open in a gasp.

“You think he’d still want you,” he whispers again, voice poison, “if he knew I was the one who made you scream?” Your head tips back, his name slipping out, sharp and unwilling, barely a gasp. He groans against your throat like he’s won. Outside, Art stands frozen, listening to the wet slap of skin, your soft stuttered gasps. Patrick’s voice drips low, “If he knew I was the one who made you scream.” It lands like a punch, knocking air from Art’s lungs.

He stares at the floor while his hands are shaking. He could very much see the tent forming in his jeans before he pulled out his phone from his pocket. He checks his contacts and your name is already there. Click your contact and pray to saints that you’ll answer even if he knows you wouldn’t. The ringtone starts just beyond the door, too loud. You don’t move. Patrick keeps fucking with you, body hitting yours while your phone rings out, thumping on the counter. Patrick laughs low, “Answer it.” Nothing. A moan.

You feel his hands on your top before he squeezes it. “Fuck… you have great tits.” Art lowers the phone, lips parting, cock hard, so hard it makes him sick. The phone rings again, slicing sharply. Patrick doesn’t stop, driving deeper with a sharp thrust that jolts your hips. “Answer it,” he mutters, voice thick with cruelty. “Let him hear you.” Your hand reaches for the phone, but Patrick’s already there, locking around your waist, dragging you back onto him. “Or don’t,” he says, slower, “let it ring while he listens to me fuck you.” You shake your head, hating what he’s saying. “Stop,” you whisper, voice cracking, “fuck, stop- he’s-”

“He’s what?” Patrick breathes, cock slamming up into you with thick, wet sounds. “He’s out there?” Your body shakes, arms trembling, thighs clenching around him like your cunt doesn’t know this is betrayal, only that you’re full. The phone rings again, Patrick leaning closer, grinding deep, mouth hot on your neck. “Let him hear it,” he whispers, “let him hear how messy you get for me.” You try to shove him off, but your hips push back, a moan catching in your throat. The phone thumps again, your hand knocking it away. You don’t try again.

Patrick keeps moving, steady and mean, fucking you through your panic. “You think he still wants you?” he growls, cock dragging slow, “Think he still wants to come home with you? Look you in the eyes? Tell you how lucky he is?” You shake your head, breath ragged, “Patrick-” Another thrust, hard, deep. The ringtone cuts off, leaving silence thick and awful. He doesn’t stop. Patrick’s breath is damp on your ear, his voice low and awful. “He’s calling because he knows.” You choke. “And you’re still letting me in.” You try to let your head fall, but Patrick cradles your jaw, forcing you to look.

“Look,” he says, breathe hot, “look at what I’m doing to you.” He tilts your face down, your lashes dragging low, vision clearing between your legs, and you nearly choke. It’s obscene, your thighs spread over his hips, trembling, skin tacky where he holds you open. Between them, his cock buried thick, dragging slow with every thrust, so deep it feels like it’s in your ribs. You’re flushed, leaking, your slick painting him with every ruined pass of his hips. He pulls back, the light catching where you glisten, before he fucks back in, wetter, meaner. “God,” Patrick breathes, “you see how you take me?” You can’t answer, your cunt tightening in helpless waves. It’s too much, too perfect, too disgusting.

“That’s mine,” he whispers at your jaw. “This pretty pussy, dripping. Mine.” Your head falls forward, chest stuttering. He fucks deeper, grinding like he’s carving it into you. His palm presses low on your belly, to where he stretches you deepest. “Are you going to come?” he murmurs, dragging his thumb over your clit, slow and filthy. “Gonna soak me just in time for him to take you home?”You sob out something that might be a yes.

He groans, jaw tight, pace breaking. “I’m going to fill you up,” he growls, “so full you’ll feel it every time you walk.” That does it. Your body open the gates and your thighs locked on his waist while your cunt is clenching tight around his cock. You bury your face in his neck before your orgasm rolls out of your body and your breath feels like it stopped. But Patrick keeps moving, slower, desperate, hips stuttering. He’s still inside you when he comes, deep and raw, breath hitching, cock pulsing thick. You feel it fill you, slick and wrong and perfect.

Even after, quiet and spent, he doesn’t pull out. He stays, one hand curled around your thigh, the other ghosting up your spine, breath warm at your cheek. You feel it before he says it, that last whisper: “Tell me what you see.” And you do. You look down at your lap, at the mess, at where he’s still inside you, your cunt stretched and twitching, flushed and leaking. You swallow. “My pussy,” you rasp.

Patrick smiles, but it’s not soft, just sure. His hand strokes along your thigh, fingers grazing where your skin is glossy from sweat and slick. He shifts once, just enough for you to feel it- he’s still inside, still thick, still hard. “You think he’ll feel it?” Patrick says, voice low, cruelly soft. “When he fucks you later, do you think he’ll notice how loose you are?” You shake your head, too fast, too weak, and he pushes deeper. It just made your body twitch. “I think he will,” he whispers, eyes locked on yours, “I think he’ll slide in and feel the shape I left.”

Your cunt clenches, instinct and betrayal. Not liking the way you like his words is affecting you. Patrick groans, “Fuck. You like that, knowing I did this.” You go still, too still when his hand presses low on your belly, palm flat. He’s feeling the shape of his cock against it. “You think he’ll pretend not to notice?” he murmurs, “that he won’t feel you dripping on me while he fucks you later in the dark?” You close your eyes, don’t answer. But he knows you won’t clean up, not if he doesn’t make you. And he won’t. He stays a moment longer, then finally, he pulls out.

You feel it immediately- the stretch, the slide, the slow spill of his cum dripping down your thighs, pooling beneath you. It’s everywhere. You don’t move but Patrick does. He smooths your skirt back down like he didn’t just fuck the soul out of you, tucks himself away, and runs a hand through his hair like nothing happened. He doesn’t look at you when he leaves. He doesn’t have to but he manages to close the door. What an asshole. You’re still on the counter, legs open, mouth parted, full of him.

While Art managed to go downstairs before you and Patrick finished what you’ve been doing. But he hadn’t meant to stay that long or to spy, his intention was only meant to check. You’d been gone too long, your phone ringing unanswered- that was it. A concern, a quiet pull in his chest: Go see. He hadn’t meant to stay, not after the knock went unanswered, not after hearing a voice that wasn’t yours- at least, not like that. But then Patrick had said something low and possessive, and Art just went still.

Then he heard you, soft, desperate, almost broken, and he couldn’t really move. Not when the sounds got clearer, not when it became obvious, not when Patrick started saying things no man should hear about their girlfriend. He told himself he’d leave, that he hadn’t heard enough to be sure. And then Patrick asked if you were coming, and you did. The second Art heard that sound, he turned and left, no slamming, no scene. It’s not him. Not very Art Donaldson to force open the door and pick up a fight with you and Patrick.

So he just walks away. It’s like the walk when you can’t be in that place. That you heard enough. He feels every step, it’s heavy with his jaw locked just to keep himself from shouting and saying vile things. He walk straight to the kitchen as if he’s not standing in front of the bathroom door hearing his girlfriend getting dicked down by Patrick. He just leans against the counter while he’s trying to take it all in and the party still keeps going. He knows someone call his name but he doesn’t give a fuck at this moment. He stares at the floor, still hearing that soft gasp you made when Patrick is inside you. His stomach turns.

Art doesn’t know if he wants to hit Patrick or himself, doesn’t know who to blame first, and doesn’t know if he wants to see you again tonight or disappear before you come back down. But he waits. He waits like something caught in a fire- quiet, cornered, burning. He doesn’t look up when he hears Patrick on the stairs, already knowing it would be him, already tracking the minutes. No rush in Patrick’s step, like he doesn’t have something to sneak out of and he’s more satisfied than guilty or ashamed.

Patrick’s shirt is rumpled, hair messy, mouth softened into that tired smirk Art’s seen before. He heads for the drinks without a glance, pops the cap like he’s earned it. Art doesn’t speak until after Patrick takes his first sip. “How was it?” he asks, too casually, not lifting his gaze. Patrick turns halfway, brows raised. “What?”

Art keeps his tone even, almost friendly. “The hookup. You said you found someone.” He sips the drink he managed to get before he saw Patrick, then looks up, unreadable. “I assume it went well.” There’s a flicker in Patrick’s eyes. “Yeah,” he says carefully. “She was into it.” Art hums, not quite agreement, not quite disbelief. Just like his normal self he can plaster right now to pretend he’s not seething. “Of course,” he says.

Art laughs before saying, “You always have a different taste you know? Always going to the girls who should know better.” He can’t tell what Art is planning by saying that but he’s not happy hearing it and his mouth twitches.“She has a name?” Art asks, trying to sound like a curious best friend, and when Patrick doesn’t answer, he doesn’t press. He tilts his head. “She must be very pretty to have your own drink abandoned. Like it doesn’t sound like you. You were so eager to go upstairs.”

Patrick exhales dry amusement. “I wasn’t the only one interested.” Art’s eyes flick down, then back up. He sees the careless tilt of Patrick’s shoulders, the quiet arrogance. “No,” Art agrees. “But you’ve always liked being first, haven’t you? Doesn’t matter who she is, what her body is, or if she’s in a relationship.” That land, too striking, but hidden in plain sight. Patrick’s grip tightens on the bottle, and Art lets the silence stretch. “Anyway,” Art says softly, turning away, “I hope it was worth it, Pat. She doesn’t usually fake it. Then again, maybe she didn’t have to.” He knows he shouldn’t say that knowing that he doesn’t know the ‘she’ in his excuse beside he knows he won’t tell him it’s his girlfriend.

While the tension is thick downstairs, here you are, you don’t move for a while after the door clicks shut. The bathroom is still heavy. Your thighs stick, slick cooling on your skin. You breathe shallow, like anything deeper might push what’s left of him further in. Eventually, you shift. Reach for a tissue. Then another. You clean the mess between your legs with shaky hands. You are trying to erase it. Removing the shame. The guilt. The action. None of the wipes worked. Your pussy still aches, clenching over nothing and it’s pulsing.

Thankfully your panties are still very much alive and you get them before you put them on despite the uncomfortable feeling it makes between your legs. Your hands are hard against the fabric even though you are trying to smooth out the wrinkly part of it because it looks like it just got out of the laundry and you are pretending right. You look at yourself: hair messy, lips smudged with the lip product you put earlier, mascara fucked and your legs are shaking as you stands right now. But you start fixing it like what you were supposed to do earlier when you planned to go there. Just to retouch and get some air. You put concealer, retouch under your eyes, gloss your lips, and fix your hair. But you’re not even rushing even as you should considering how long you’ve been gone, but you’re not stalling either. Wipe, fix, adjust, and stack these steps like armor.

Now you don’t look like that girl anymore. You lean closer, studying your reflection, the flush blooming under your makeup, the raw part of your lip. You take a deep breath as you straighten how you stand, closing the compact and you exhale. The hallway is suspiciously quiet when you open the door of the bathroom and you step out of it. You are nervous as hell as you go downstairs slowly, not hurried. Each step you are doing feels another sin adding to the existing list you have. Your breath is shaky and your hands are too while you continue to swiping them on your skirt before you round the corner.

The kitchen is still the same. Still bright. Full of drinks. The place is still crowded and loud and it’s starting to get annoying. Patrick sees you first. He doesn’t move, just watches. You don’t look at him. You don’t have to. Art is already crossing the room, quick but not rushed, like he’s been waiting for you. “Hey,” he says, soft, warm, too easy now. “Where have you been?” Before you answer, his hand is on your back, guiding you like nothing’s wrong. His other hand lifts yours, brushing your knuckles, kissing your cheek, smiling like he means it.

“You okay?” he asks, low. “You look flushed.” You nod. Behind you, Patrick shifts but doesn’t speak. Art turns slightly, hand still at your hip, thumb grazing in slow, familiar circles. “Was just telling Patrick we might head out,” he says, like it’s decided. “Unless you want to stay?” You shake your head. Art leans in near your ear, smiling. “That’s what I thought.” His grip feels possessive but not hurting you, it’s soft and gentle but you can feel the decision in it as he turns to Patrick. He has this same, still his best friend still your loving boyfriend. Only his eyes look dangerous.

You don’t say goodbye. Art curls his hand around your hip, steering you toward the front door, coat over his arm, voice low like nothing’s changed. You don’t look back; just let him guide you out, down the hall, through the kitchen where Patrick stands, silent and unmoving. No one stops you. No one sees the tension in your spine, the way your fingers flex. No one notices the way Art glances over his shoulder just once- not at you, not at the party, but at Patrick. And Patrick doesn’t follow. He watches the door close with his jaw tight, hands in his pockets. Every muscle he has is locked like he’s holding himself together for something he knows he doesn’t have the right to. He will not go back to the room that night. He knows both of you will be there. Can’t stand it.

You shower quietly, water running longer than needed. You shower like you want it all to go away. You feel shit even when you finished, skin damp, wearing one of Art’s shirts, he’s already in bed, lamp on, watching. You don’t meet his eyes, but you climb in anyway. He doesn’t reach right away, just watches you pull the blanket up like it might cover anything. Then he moves. His hand slid in. You feel the soft touch on your skin. It’s slow. Gentle. Familiar. He’s grazing the softness of your stomach before it gets lower. You let him slip it between your legs and you got tense but you still continued with it. You don’t stop it. Makes you feel sick that you want it after just what happened with Patrick. “You’re always so quiet after parties,” he murmurs. His fingers press in, two at once, smooth, and you bite down on a breath. Your thighs twitch. “Still so warm,” he says. “So soft for me.”

His voice stays low. He doesn’t move his hand, just keeps it there, deep, surrounded by the evidence of what isn’t his. “I can’t tell if you’re like this because of me…” he adds, shifting, “or because someone else got to you first.” You open your mouth but say nothing. He curls his fingers, watching you flinch. Then he leans in, his breath grazing your cheek. “You let him fuck you raw?” You jerk like you might pull away, but he doesn’t let you. His other hand moves to your hip, holding you still. “That’s not a no.” He smiles, not angry, just satisfied. “That’s okay,” he whispers like it’s not fucked up. Like everything is alright. “You think Patrick left a mark?” His voice drops, darker, right at your ear. “You have no idea how long I can stay inside you.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. His voice stays calm, loving even- like when he teases you after class. Only now his fingers are inside you, his mouth near your ear, his thumb brushing your hip like reassurance, not control. He feels so gentle but you know that this is not gentleness, it’s his way of punishing you. “You could’ve just told me, you know,” he says softly and he kisses your shoulder. He’s peppering the skin he can touch with his lips with kisses. Soft and gentle. Forgiving even. “if you wanted to fuck my best friend.” He said like it’s decided already. His mouth grazes your jaw, exhaling your scent like a sigh, like he’s disappointed, not angry. “Next time tell me. It would’ve saved you the trouble of whoring yourself out for it.” And he pulls out his fingers from inside and just kisses your temple with all this sweet smile plastered on his face.

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⠀⠀⠀twenty-twenty-five © addie / musingsofheaven.

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[megwritesriddles]

The First Move ༊*·˚

18+ MDNI !!!

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader / You

Summary: A slightly disorganised account of being friends-with-benefits (or slightly more) with Spencer Reid.

Tags: Unprotected sex (birth control mentioned though), Creampie, P in V, Semi-public office sex, Fingering, Friends with Benefits, Secret relationship, Very minor hinted breeding kink (?), Awkward/Inexperienced!Spencer, Pining, Spencer Reid in glasses, Menstruation mention.

Word count: 3.7k

all fandom masterlist | cm masterlist | read it on ao3

Authors note: This will probably be my last fic for quite a while because all my final uni due dates are rapidly approaching and sadly I need to focus on them, I will be back tho... I feel like this has a weird structure but I'm prob just in my head about it lol... Hope you like it anyway mwah ( ◕◡◕)っ ♡

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Spencer had never known what to answer when asked if he had a type, frustrated how regularly the question seemed to come up despite it being nobody's business but his own. His life had given him room for very few crushes over the years, in fact, for a long time in his teen years he had thought that sex and romance was uninteresting to him entirely, caught up in his studies and with no one age appropriate around to latch onto with his developing hormones. Sure, he saw pretty girls that caught his eye on occasion, but he was never around them enough to know if that feeling was anything more than aesthetic. He’d thought he was different from everyone else in this aspect as he was in most other ways, and had more or less come to terms with it, when it all changed. He hated change, even if this change made him more ‘normal’, and had been completely thrown off when he realised he could in fact experience crushes and arousal towards real women, rather than just fictional characters. It turned out, he had just been looking for something specific.

Now he knew what his ‘type’ was, but still had no answer to the question when asked, too embarrassed to admit it. He liked a woman who took charge, not to the point of a specific dynamic, but a confident woman who made the first moves. Perhaps it was a symptom of his insecurity, perhaps his general personality, but he found it very arousing when a woman took charge of him, showing unabashed interest and guiding him around. He wanted, deeply, to be wanted. You were just that, and deep down he’d known it from the moment he met you. Immediately, he was interested when he met you in the BAU meeting room, you being introduced as the newest member of the team. You were well-dressed and styled, but not to the point of standing out or being flashy, tasteful quality fabrics and an air of confidence most new recruits didn’t have. And, of course, you were insanely beautiful. 

For months, he did nothing about the crush he was harbouring on you. He didn’t have the confidence, and either way, you were coworkers, it would just get messy if you did get involved in some way. Yet, when you made the first move, all of Spencer’s worries flew out of the window.

“I like your shirt,” you smile wryly, sitting yourself on his desk in front of him, forcing his eyes upward away from the case files he’s reviewing. He flushes. The two of you are completely alone in the bullpen, not for the first time, both working overtime. It’s another thing he likes about you, similar dedication to the work. He clears his throat.

“Thanks,” he gives an awkward tightlipped smile, spinning his pen between his fingers. You smile back, tilting your head and tracing your eyes down the fabric. A subtle light purple floral print.

“Most guys wouldn’t wear something like that,” you hum. The comment makes him nervous.

“I- uh… I know it’s not very manly–” he stammers, flushed and embarrassed, assuming you were being backhanded. He knew he didn’t dress macho like someone like Morgan, but at various times he’d gone shopping and tried on more ‘manly’ outfits, he’d just felt so completely ridiculous and not himself, so had given up on it. He liked the clothes he wore, did it really matter what other people thought? They already found him weird either way. But when it was you saying it, suddenly it mattered more than ever.

“No! Reid!” A chuckle escapes your lips despite yourself. “I’m serious, I like it, it’s a compliment, it’s fun,” you reach out, running a fingertip over the sleeve, making his muscles tense a little. He swallows, averting his eyes for a moment before looking back at you.

“Sorry I… I’m used to people meaning the opposite of what they say… you know?” he laughs nervously, stopping himself from speaking further, watching your hand fall back to your side. You shrug.

“I always mean what I say, I don’t bother with games, it’s a great shirt,” A moment of silence passes as your eyes meet. Spencer can’t seem to stop himself opening his mouth again.

“And anyway… I certainly wouldn’t describe myself as fun, I’m like… the opposite of fun… I uh…” he voice dies away as his eyes follow your hand up to play with the small pendant on your necklace, drawing his attention to your cleavage. He’s sure you didn’t have so many buttons popped earlier today. He mentally berates himself for even having noticed that, but can’t seem to draw his eyes away from your chest, especially as you lean forward a little. You notice his wide eyes on you and it reminds you why you came over here in the first place.

“Do you like my shirt, Dr Reid?” you whisper, your voice low and sultry and immediately travelling down to his crotch. The question throws him off and he flounders, his mouth gaping for a moment, the pen stopping between his fingers. Lashes flutter as his eyes meet yours, praying he isn’t imagining the lust he sees there. Still, he’s too nervous he’s misinterpreting you. He cannot comment on your body, the last thing he wants to do is ever make you uncomfortable, so he stays somewhere safer, albeit, unconvincingly. 

“It’s a great… colour,” he smiles shakily. This seems to be the wrong answer, as your face falls a little in disappointment. For a moment, you think he’s rebuffed you, perhaps you’d been imagining his staring all this time and he really wasn’t interested. You shift your legs, preparing to hop off of his desk and leave him alone, when you spot his eyes darting to your thighs, Adam’s apple bobbing noticeably, eyes dark. Taking a great risk, you shift your legs again, spreading them just slightly, trying to cling onto your flimsy prospect of plausible deniability. His breath hitches, his eyes wide and laser-focused. The shadow of a bulge in his slacks as you glance down his body is all you need to finally stop beating around the bush. 

“You’re getting hard,” you state simply, keeping your word about not playing games. Spencer’s mouth falls open, completely in shock that you’ve said that to him. Though he hadn’t yet noticed it himself, he can’t really deny it, glancing down, it’s clear that it’s pretty unmistakable. Your directness turns him on, so when you reach down, your hand curling around his tie and pulling him forward, he goes more than willingly toward you, rising from his desk chair. “I could help you with it,” you whisper as his lips stop just before yours, a shaky breath washing over them. “If you want…” you add with a seductive purr. He nods an eager agreement, eyes closed and breaths shallow, moaning the instant your lips touch. It’s nervous, as many first kisses are, Spencer is a little shaky, needing you to guide him to stand between your legs. You play with the strands of hair by his ear, using them to keep him held close, though he isn't exactly trying to pull away. An uncertain hand cups your jaw and he draws your bottom lip into his mouth, sucking lightly. It’s the only move in his repertoire, but it works beautifully, drawing a soft sinful sound from your lips. He responds in kind, whining as both of your hands tangle into his hair. To him, it’s heaven. When you lie back, he barely allows his lips to disconnect from yours, following you down in desperation, propping himself over top of your body. As your legs wrap around his hips and pull him in, he’s done for.

The night turns into your first hook-up of many to come. You let him take you on his desk, finding his fumbling enthusiasm both endearing and sexy. He’s gentle and cautious, it’s obvious he’s nervous beyond belief, but you placate him with sweet words, and take the lead whenever you need to. He’s long, thin and slightly curved, his head falling into the crook of your neck with a loud moan as he bottoms out inside of you. The actual sex is over a little fast, this isn’t his first time, but it’s not far from it, combined with the fact the two of you are technically in public and that he’s having sex with you of all people, means he really has no hope lasting long. Honestly, he thinks it’s a miracle he lasted as long as he did. Breathless and apologetic, he tries to think what to do next. He’s no douchebag, he isn’t going to use you and disregard your pleasure, but he’s entirely unsure how to achieve your pleasure. In theory, yes, he knows everything about pleasing a woman from all the books he’s read in case of this situation. But it is so very different to be presented with the real thing. You don’t look like one of the clinical diagrams he’s used to seeing, and he’s not sure he’s entirely lucid after being allowed to come inside of you. Seeing his release dripping out of you doesn’t help. You giggle a little as you see his wide-eyed look, the gasp that leaves his lips.

“I think I’ve just discovered something about myself,” he confesses, pupils dilated as he thoughtlessly reaches up and uses his finger to push the release back into you. The moan you grant him tells him you liked the action as much as he did. He gets to work trying to recreate what he’s read in his books now that his hand is on you anyway. After a good while of figuring out your anatomy, he’s surprisingly deft with his fingers. You knew you’d always stared at his hands for a reason. You pull him down for a kiss as you come, very glad for your birth control.

He can’t quite believe he’s had sex with you, sitting completely dazed on the metro on the way home afterward. He’d never done something so wild, with so little forethought or discussion, in his life. He certainly can’t bring himself to regret anything. Despite making very sure with you that no evidence was left behind, he was anxious, convinced that everyone would somehow know what had happened on his desk when they came into work the next day. He replays the encounter over and over in his head once he’s at home in his bed, never so grateful for his eidetic memory. Part of him wants to call you, but he just can’t get himself to.

It was nearly a month before you hooked up again, much to both of your chagrin. You had been waiting around for him to invite you to his apartment or something but slowly came to realise it wasn’t going to happen. He was still too nervous around you, more so than before, despite what you had done together. Constantly stuttering and wringing his hands when talking to you about a case, staring longingly across the bullpen and following you around like a lost puppy when on a case together. With his behaviour as it was, it was a testament to his professionalism that he was able to focus on the cases at all, but whenever there was a quiet moment, it was back to you. It amused you that no one on the team had figured out what had happened, just assuming Spencer’s little crush had got worse, always shocked how you managed to stay ‘oblivious’. He brought you coffee, carried your go-bag onto the plane for you, always hanging around you afterward for a while, staring at you shyly and waiting. But he never once dared to make the first move.

Eventually, you get sick of his pining and you just invite yourself to his apartment, catching up to him as he leaves work and threading your arm through his, taking the metro with him. He seems over the moon, chattering with nervous excitement to you as you walk from the metro station to his apartment. Once inside, you push him backwards into his bedroom, causing him to fall back on the bed. You hop up to straddle him and he’s never been so aroused in his life. He sounds so whiny and eager as you ride him, more than happy to be with you again and bring you pleasure in any way he can. By the end of that night, he knew he was addicted to you with no going back. When you fall asleep in his bed, he spends a long time just looking at you and stroking your cheek. You are beautiful and he is falling for you, but he doesn’t know what to say or do about it.

From then on, you invite yourself over at least once a week, if not more, walking arm in arm with him to and from the metro station, spending the nights blowing his mind and ever entwining yourself into his life for several months. You’d even hooked up in the employee bathrooms at work at one point, but had immediately decided not to do it again when Penelope nearly caught you. It had been fun nonetheless. Sneaking into his hotel room when out on a case was another common way to initiate, so common that Spencer had just started texting you his room number as soon as the team got to a given hotel, knowing you would come visit him once everyone else was in their rooms and not likely to catch you sneaking to him.

In a matter of moments from entering his room, you’re guiding him backwards toward the bed as you kiss feverishly, struggling to kick off your shoes before hopping up into his lap like normal. He hums happily, his large hands settling on your hips, fingers flexing anxiously, still not quite used to your physicality despite the months of hook-ups. He leans back against the headboard, looking up at you with a slightly awed expression. The heat was already rising between you, leading you to shrug off the robe you’d wrapped around yourself for your way here, letting it fall to the floor. Spencer twitches beneath you as the clear outline of your breasts, and your nipples which are pebbled from the cold, come into view. Yet, he doesn’t try to pounce on you like most guys might, just giving a shaky smile and running a tender hand up your side. You smile back, cupping his cheek and running your thumb over the cheekbone.

“Have I ever told you I like your glasses?” you muse. He puffs out a laugh.

“Once, when I first started wearing them, but I didn’t believe you,” he chuckles and you do too.

“Well, I do like them, they make you look cute,” You place a kiss on his cheek, trailing toward his jaw. He laughs once more, though more unstable now, tilting his head to give you access. 

“I don’t think I get called cute all that much,” he jokes, eyes meeting yours as you pull away to look at him.

“You should be, you’re a total cutie,” you tease, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his lips which he eagerly reciprocates, his fingers twitching, debating moving somewhere else. “The,” kiss. “Cutest,” another kiss. “Ever,” you smile against his lips. He smiles back, a hand sliding up your back and pulling you closer to press against his body. You were so complimentary lately, it made his head spin. Your hands move up, gently removing his glasses as they press into you uncomfortably when the two of you kiss. “It’s a shame, they really do something for me,” you smirk as you fold them closed. He reaches out to stop you, taking the glasses from you and slipping them onto your face. You blink, trying to adjust to the blurriness of his prescription. He takes the sight of you in for a moment before dramatically wrinkling his nose. 

“Yeah, not your look,” you gasp and smack his arm lightly, making him laugh.

“You total ass!” 

“I’m kidding, you look as adorable as ever, it’s unfair, how can you make everything work?” he squeezes your side. You roll your eyes, taking off the glasses and placing them in the open glasses case on his nightstand. He watches you, rubbing your sides slowly. “Do the glasses really do something for you?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah, I don’t really know why, they just do,” you shrug, sitting back up properly in his lap, shifting your hands to rub his chest through his pyjama shirt. “Anything that I wear do it for you?”

“Everything,” he grins. You laugh.

“I’m being serious!” you prod his chest.

“So am I! Seriously, whenever I’m around you it’s like… I’m one whiff of your shampoo away from getting hard,” he confesses, a quiet and slightly nervous laugh puffing out of his chest. Of course, he knows you must have noticed this by now, but actually confessing to it aloud feels a little pathetic. He’s just so… enamored with you. You tilt your head, staring down at him.

“You’re such a horny little freak,” you giggle, cupping his chin and leaning down to give him a kiss. “I would have never guessed it when we first met,” he laughs against your lips, shifting your hips against his so you’re sitting comfortably.

“You must bring it out of me, I wasn’t like this before,” he retorts a little nervously. He’s still a bit unsure around you, worried that he’s going to say the wrong thing and scare you away forever, but every day it gets a little easier. You get a little closer to him and don’t get scared away when you see the ugly. It feels so good it hurts.

Like the other week when you’d come home with him, only for his mother’s sanitarium to call while you’d been making out on his couch. It had only been to inform him about some medication changes, but the fact they’d called him had freaked him out. He tried so hard not to cry, it was ridiculous, nothing was even wrong, he wanted to be strong for you, but the tears had come anyway. Instead of finding him odd, or sitting and awkwardly waiting for it to pass, you’d soothed him for a bit, stroking his hair, and then endeavoured to distract him. You’d put on a documentary for him and made him some tea, sitting in his lap while he calmed down and watched the documentary. He’d felt like a big baby, but it felt good to be cared for. You’d left his apartment that night without getting what you’d come there for, but you never seemed upset, being your normal teasing self the next day at work, twisting his tie around your hand when you’d caught him alone by the coffee machines, taunting him by pretending you were going to kiss him and pulling back. He’d been able to steal a kiss later that day by hanging back to pack up after a meeting. When he’d apologised for the previous night, you’d just said you were glad he was okay. He blinks rapidly as you snap your fingers in front of his face.

“Spence? Where’d you go? You like… glazed over,” you pout. He smiles sheepishly, reaching up to push a hair out of your face.

“I was just thinking about you,” he admits. You huff. 

“I’m right here! You don’t have to think about me!”

“I know, I know, sorry, just got lost in my thoughts,” he pulls you closer so your chests are pressed together, pecking your forehead and taking a subtle whiff of your hair. The scent seems to immediately lower his blood pressure, you just made him feel safe these days, he wished he could stop being so nervous and just enjoy things. “You mean the world to me,” he whispers in an effort to do just that. The words make you pause, you don’t really expect them, but they warm your heart to no end. 

“You mean the world to me too,” you rest your forehead to his for a quiet moment. His eyes close and he drinks up your words and your closeness. One day, and it would be soon, he was going to ask you to be his girlfriend. It was a terrifying prospect and the idea that you might say no was so painful it was physical, but he had to do it. More and more often he almost finds himself blurting out that he loves you, and if he’s going to tell you that, it’s going to be on purpose. Probably with flowers and chocolate-covered strawberries, or maybe running through an airport if the movies he’d been watching for inspiration were anything to go by. However he decided to do it, it would have to be special, prove that he cared for you without a shadow of a doubt, and hopefully aid in making you fall for him. Part of him just wished you’d say it first, like you did with most things, but there wasn’t really any telling if you felt that way. You’d been different with him lately, and he hoped it wasn’t too optimistic to consider you might feel the same as he did. Your head shifted to his shoulder and your body melted onto his, clearly assuming that tonight would be a cuddling night. You’d done this a few times now, after particularly scarring cases or when you were on your period, it wasn’t really usual friends-with-benefits stuff, but in your line of work, a little cuddle was often very much needed, so was justifiable. He turns his head to kiss your forehead again.

“Don’t give up on me just yet,” he whispers, hoping to sound lighthearted. 

“Yeah?” you ask quietly, looking up at him as he looks down to meet your eyes. “I’m not giving up,” you whisper, kissing his jaw a few times. The words have deeper meaning to Spencer and he takes a shaky breath.

“I just may need you to make the first move,” he smiles, shifting to face you. You smile simply.

“What’s new?”

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

hey you! want to get tagged in my work when it comes out? click here! (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

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[lvrclerc]

✶ STEAL YOUR HEART, TONIGHT!

summary: after the united states grand prix, the drivers decide to immerse themselves in the true american experience by going to the most infamous coyote ugly in austin to celebrate ─ needless to say, max is in for a culture shock, and maybe a little heart attack when one of the coyotes seems to take a fancy to him.

F1 MASTERLIST | MV33 MASTERLIST

pairing: max verstappen x coyote!f!reader

wc: 7.6k

cw: reader is implied to be southern/has a southern accent, reader smokes, alcohol, english is not my first language, sexual/romantic tension, i know next to nothing about coyote ugly this is based on vibes and vibes alone, use of y/n, bittersweet towards the end.

note: the idea of max verstappen just stepping in a coyote ugly is so funny to me. here's to lei @cntappen who wanted to see a max fic!

WARNING!

You may get wet

You may lose your tie

You may lose your bra

No men on the bar

No touching the girls on the bar - even if it’s your own girlfriend, do that at home!

We don’t serve free water

If you pick a bad song on the jukebox, you may get skipped

If you are easily offended, this isn’t the bar for you

Be nice and have fun!

YOU WILL GET DRUNK, YOU WILL GET UGLY!

What did Max get into?

The words were written hastily on a board in front of the bar with a black marker, making him wonder how it successfully stood the test of time. The night was dark around the slightly weathered wooden structure, but the obnoxious neon red sign made each detail of the street clear as day: COYOTE UGLY.

It looked like something out of a bad, anachronic Western film ─ scratched paint, flickering lights, the low hum of American dad rock vibrating through the walls. Still, there was a line out of the door and people littering the front porch ─ girls in jean shorts and cowboy hats yelling to each other above the music, guys already stumbling out with their shirts unbuttoned too far.

Daniel was the one who insisted.

He flew in to watch the United States Grand Prix, as it would be the only one he’d be free enough to attend and it had been a little while since he caught up with some of the drivers ─ including Max, Max who had been the happy winner of the aforementioned Grand Prix. “Come on Maxie,” he’d said that afternoon wearing a cowboy hat he definitely didn’t pack. “After-parties are always the same. Fake VIP tables, same music, same people. We need something different for tonight! Something fun!”

Max had muttered that he was fine drinking in a familiar place and that nobody really went partying after Austin anyway ─ it was just another win, and they had a day to pack for Mexico. That was without knowing Daniel, obviously, who had already sent a group text. Much to Max's surprise ─ note the sarcasm ─ most of the drivers had declined due to exhaustion and the general reputation of Coyote Ugly. He thought that would be the end of it, until Lando, Carlos, Pierre and surprisingly Charles had all jumped at the idea like it was the goddamn social event of the season.

Mostly because Daniel had the talent to sell a bad idea to someone like a lawyer. And that─ that explained why Max was there.

Carlos was already walking ahead of them, sunglasses on despite the fact it was nearly midnight, yelling something to a drunkard behind him in fast Spanish. Charles trailed behind, squinting at the building like he was trying to figure out if the neon sign was ironic or a warning ─ Max concluded he didn’t look up what a Coyote Ugly was before tagging along. Lando was busy taking a selfie with a wannabe cowboy and cowgirl who stopped him, already in his element.

And now Max stood between Daniel and Pierre, outside this absurdly American fever dream of a bar, and he was pretty sure people were getting murdered inside. He wondered if Daniel had finally lost his mind.

“You’re going to thank me for this,” the latter declared, hands out like he was presenting a five-star resort instead of a glorified wooden box.

Max raised a brow. “No. I’m already regretting this.”

“I love it personally,” interjected Pierre. “Smells like tequila and questionable decisions.”

Daniel threw an arm around Max’s shoulders. “See? That’s the spirit. Come on, Max. Live a little. You just won a Grand Prix, you should be dancing somewhere.”

“I’m a driver, not a dancer. Especially not that type of dancer,” he deadpanned.

Pierre smirked. “You might not have a choice. I saw a line dance when I passed by the window, and someone getting body shots done on the bar.”

“You’re fucking kidding.” Max could feel himself blanching.

Daniel grinned like the devil himself, and Max wondered why he wasn’t in his hotel room. “Oh it’s real, mate. You’re in America─ home of deep-fried butter and girls with fire hoses full of Jack Daniels.”

Lando, who had finally rejoined them, snorted. “You sound wayyy too excited about this.”

“I am! This is culture,” Daniel insisted. “This is history. This is─”

He was cut off as someone inside screamed, followed by the unmistakable sound of a whip cracking. Max stared at the entrance, eyes narrowing at the figure of a woman sliding across the bar and before he could catch another glimpse─ the blur of the people inside blocked his view.

“... Is that even legal?” He asked.

Daniel just patted his back in fake reassurance. “Too late to back out now, champ.”

He ran to catch up with Carlos in front of them, leaving Max stranded in his own hesitation. Was he really going to…?

Pierre laughed, following suit. Well, he guessed it was indeed too late to back out, and Max never left things unfinished, after all.

The door slammed behind him like a final warning.

The heat of the bar hit Max like a punch. Everything was sweaty, loud, alive, sticking to his skin and prickling it. The floor vibrated beneath his feet from the raucous movements of the crowd, barely walkable, and the scent of whiskey and cheap perfume hung in the air. People were everywhere ─ dancing, shouting, laughing, adding to the bass escaping from the humongous, vintage jukebox in the back of the room.

Someone threw a bra across the room and no one even flinched. Carlos cheered.

It was lawless. Much more than what Max was used to.

“Welcome to America, baby!” Daniel hollered over the music, arms spread around him like he’d just stepped into a holy place.

Max shot him a look, dread comfortably installed in the pit of his stomach. He brushed someone’s feather boa off his arm with a scoff. “Is that what you call fun?”

“A little different from Monaco bottle service, huh?” Daniel grinned.

“Right now I’m just doubting your taste in bars.”

“Eh…,” the Australian clapped him on the back. “It builds character.”

Why would someone want to get literally hosed down with whiskey to build character, Max didn’t know ─ and it’s not like he pulled the example out of his ass: a guy was taking a whiskey shower in the middle of the room, given by a girl in very tight clothing and run-down chaps standing on the bar.

He squinted. “How is this even sanctioned?”

“Man, you ask yourself way too many questions, just enjoy! Look at the others, at least they’re already having fun.”

Carlos was already gone, swallowed up by a pack of cowboy boots and red lipstick, while Lando and Charles were making their way toward the bar with wide eyes and the kind of expression Max hadn’t seen since their karting days. Pierre vanished. Someone bumped into his shoulder so hard it almost knocked the wind out of him.

In the end, he just sighed. He wouldn’t win that fight. “If I get anything poured on me, I’m leaving.”

Daniel laughed. “Don’t worry, they’ll only do it if you ask. Or not. Anyways, let’s get a drink!”

Max started walking toward the bar, following in Lando and Charles’ footsteps before Daniel could even finish his sentence. If he wanted to survive the evening ─ hell, even just the ambiance ─ he needed something to keep him going. Preferably cold. Preferably strong. Preferably now.

But that’s when the music shifted, the lights dimmed ever so slightly, and suddenly ─ everything changed.

A warm glow from old projectors cut through the red haze, casting gold across the surface of the bar like a spotlight, and just like that, the crowd moved. Turned their heads toward the long wooden structure like it was a stage and not the stickiest surface in Texas. Someone behind Max let out a whoop so loud it nearly startled him, “Hell yeah, that’s what I’m talking about!” 

In the shuffles of bodies and beer, Max lost sight of Daniel completely.

He would have cared in any other circumstances, and maybe a part of him did at the moment, but he was only human ─ his gaze caught on the bar as well. More specifically, his gaze caught on you as you stepped into the light.

Crimson red cowboy boots first, planted strongly on the bar top, followed by the curve of your legs and the ripped, distressed hem of your shorts, the glint of a belt buckle looking like it carried multiple stories. Your tank top clung to your skin in the heat, and you were probably drenched in something ─ what, Max wouldn’t want to guess. Your hair was catching on the light, wildfire-like, almost matching the red neons. One of your hands lifted in the air, claiming the moment, and the other held a mic ─ beat up, wrapped up in tape, completely yours.

You didn’t ask for the attention of the people in front of you, no. You commanded it.

“LET’S WAKE THIS DAMN CITY UP!” You shouted into the mic, voice hoarse and tone ecstatic, and the whole room erupted.

And the music kicked in again, louder this time ─ an unapologetic, southern rock anthem beating against the wall. You dropped low, hips rolling to the beat while your hands gripped the metal bar above you to keep you on your feet. You popped back up with a loud, teasing laugh, and, mid spin, someone handed you a bottle. You poured the liquor straight into a row of open mouths, feeding the fire you started.

Max couldn’t get himself to look away.

If all the other bartenders, or coyotes as Lando affectionately corrected earlier in the night, looked like they performed the overt confidence, you didn’t: you looked in your element, basking in the spotlight, the attention and the smell of burnt wood. And it wasn’t just the way you moved, no ─ it was the way you owned it. Unbothered, untouchable. Like the bar was yours. The music, the night? Yours too.

And then for a second, just one ─ you looked at him. Dead in the eyes, over the crowd. Over the sweat and light and noise, and you threw him a grin. 

You caught him staring.

It should have been meaningless, the moment barely lasted enough to make note of it, but Max’s breath still hitched. The beat of the music wasn’t the only thing making his heart stutter off rhythm.

The chaos dulled, the music softened and just like that, you were gone. Lost behind the bar in the sea of bodies crawling in front of it. Max blinked. He wondered if he hallucinated you. 

He shook his head to get rid of the haze his mind settled into. Before he could have time to think about anything else, or even try, an arm dropped around his shoulders and a cowboy hat was on his head. Daniel had reappeared. “What a show, huh?” He said.

“Where’d you go?” Max asked, rearranging the hat on his head. He knew that if he took it off now, Daniel would be quick to put it back on.

“Went to fetch you this. Stole it from someone puking in the corner,” Max's nose scrunched at the mental image. “Come on, let’s finally get that drink. Maybe the Coyote you’ve been ogling during the whole perf’ will serve you.”

He protested. “I wasn’t ogling.” Because he wasn’t. I mean ─ what else was he supposed to do? Look at the ground while you danced? But Daniel was already on his way toward the bar and this time, Max followed him without much of a complaint. Mainly because he had been eyeing the spot you disappeared behind for the entire conversation.

People crowded around the wooden counter like it was a lifeboat. Arms waving, voices raised, someone yelling for shots and someone else already halfway to a table with three beers in each hand. The bartenders, sorry, Coyotes, moved like machines ─ fast, efficient, ruthless. Max tucked himself between Daniel and Pierre, who had reappeared as well, with difficulty.

And then, he spotted you again.

It was more like flashes of you, really. A hand catching a bottle mid-air. A flash of glitter on your cheek. A bandana tied around your wrist. Your voice cut through the air like smoke, low and teasing and just loud enough to carry. That’s what made Max’s head snap ─ it was unsettlingly recognizable, even after hearing so little of it.

“That’s your third tequila, cowboy. You aiming to dance or blackout first?”

Someone laughed ─ a rough, lovesick sound ─ and you grinned without looking up as you slid another shot glass across the bar. Through their drunk delusions, everyone around the table probably assumed they were in love with you, Max thought.

He stepped up, hands braced against the edge of the counter, waiting. That was when you turned and for the second time tonight, you looked right at him, as if feeling his presence before he could even call for another bartender.

Jesus fuck─ up close, you were something else entirely. Sun-warmed and sun-kissed skin, your cheeks were flushed from the heat along with your sweat-slicked collarbones. Your lips were pulled into the kind of smirk he’s sure could cause car crashes, and your eyes sparkled under the bar lights ─ like you knew exactly what he was searching for.

If you did, spare the poor soul and tell him, because Max wasn’t sure he wanted that drink anymore.

“You lost?” You asked. Your tone was smooth, a southern accent dripping from every word. God, that was dangerous.

Max blinked. Oh, he was gaping. “No,” he affirmed, a little too harshly.

Your eyes, intense, dragged over him, twinkling a little brighter than before. “You look lost.”

Max suddenly felt very conscious of how much he had to be sticking out. He had no outfits or items of clothing that fit this type of place ─ the light-washed jeans, the tennis shoes, and the black, short-sleeved shirt with his Formula One number in the back was as casual as he could do without looking homeless. The cowboy hat had to add some more ridiculousness to it, he realized.

He cleared his throat, frowning slightly. He usually wasn’t one to really care about outfits. “Just a drink, please.”

You leaned in, close enough that Max could smell your perfume. Warm, sugary, intoxicating. “Name your poison, pretty boy.”

Pretty boy. He gulped. For fuck’s sake, where did the confidence he had a few hours earlier go, when he was brandishing the Austin trophy?

“Whatever’s strongest.” God knows he needs it right now.

You just gave him a look ─ just the faintest eyebrow raise, clearly amused. Grabbing a bottle from behind you with practiced ease, you poured without measuring, slid a glass toward him with one hand, and propped the other on your hip, where Max’s eyes lingered a little too long.

“Try that,” you said. “If it doesn’t knock the edge off, I’ll give you a second round for free.”

He reached for the glass. You looked too smug, challenging him like he was no one to you, which he probably was. But Max liked a challenge, he was known for never backing out after all. He handled stronger for sure and America wasn’t the place that was about to teach him alcohol. He threw the whole glass back.

It burned.

His eyes watered, and Max coughed so hard he thought fire was about to spill out from his esophagus. You, on the other hand, looked delighted, grinning widely at his misery.

“You hate it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

You laughed, and the sound echoed in Max’s chest like cathedral bells, so violently he froze. Must be the alcohol.

Noticing his lack of retort, you leaned your elbows onto the bar, eyes dancing. “Aww, ain’t you too pretty to be looking this miserable?”

You were going to be the death of him. The corner of your mouth curled as if you’d just lit up a fuse. Max swallowed, slowly recovering from the short circuit your voice alone had triggered. “Is that how you greet all of your customers─ uh…” He choked out, searching for your name on your shirt.

“Y/N.” The name sounded good sliding off your tongue. Max felt the need to know how it felt sliding off his. “And only the ones who look like they took a wrong turn at a country club,” you commented, chin propped in your hand, eyes still locked on his. Touché. “You got that look─ y’know, European.” You whispered that as if it was a bad word. “Quiet, repressed. Secretly judging everyone.”

“That’s harsh.” He raised an eyebrow. “I’m not judging.” He was. He just wasn’t judging you.

“Sure you’re not, Verstappen.”

Oh. Your tone was casual, tossed off like nothing ─ but the sound of his name in your mouth made something flicker in his chest. Not how you said it, even though the accent and the inflections played a part in it, but the fact you said it at all.

You knew who he was, and clearly ─ you didn’t give two shits.

“Anyways,” you kept on going, oblivious or choosing not to care about the semi-amused grin that slipped on Max’s face. “The drink in your hand says otherwise.”

He glanced down. He threw the glass back, yes, but the liquid was so strong he couldn’t even get half of it down before choking on it. “I’m drinking it.”

“Barely.”

Max straightened a bit. “Okay. Fine.” Again, his tone was harsher than he actually meant it to be. He just didn’t know how to handle whatever was happening there ─ your smiles, your presence. “What should I be drinking then?”

You didn’t answer right away ─ just tilted your head, eyes sweeping over him slowly, deliberately, like you were appraising a new kind of game. It sent shivers down his spine, and he was deeply ashamed to say he was enjoying it. “You trust me, pretty boy?”

There was the nickname again. “I don’t not trust you,” which was as far as he could go after knowing you for a dance and a drink. Maybe he needed more. Just to make sure you wouldn’t poison him.

“That’s a whole lotta syllables for yes!” You laughed, already moving, pulling down bottles Max could barely recognize, tossing ice into a shaker with a rhythm that matched the beat of the song playing overhead. Your hands moved fast, confident, dancing between ingredients as if you were born behind this bar.

Max was fast, yes, but not in the way you were ─ intricate, careful. Just like that, he was hypnotized again, eyes tracing your every movement.

It broke when you slid another drink toward him. Something golden, fizzing at the top, smelling like citrus and vanilla. Like you. “Go on, drink.”

He eyed the glass. “What’s in it?”

“You said you trusted me.”

“You put the words in my mouth.”

You barked out a surprised laugh. “Either drink or I’m telling your lil’ blond friend with the camera you can’t handle your liquor,” you nodded behind Max with a sharp grin. “Wonder how that’ll go down.”

He glanced over his shoulder, and Lando had his camera zeroed on him in a way that may have tried to be discreet but miserably failed. Max muttered a curse. First, because Lando had the bad habit of filming everything and for it to get leaked the day after ─ so if their little outing wasn’t public information already, it would be by tomorrow morning. Second, based on his first point, he couldn’t possibly be dragged through the dirt for going to a Coyote Ugly and have the reputation of a lightweight. His Dutch heritage would look like a joke. Max brought the glass to his lips.

It tasted like heat, honey, whiskey, and something floral he couldn’t name. “That’s… actually good.”

“Told you you should trust me,” you said, pleased. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, I taste-test all the cocktails before I serve them. I’m not that much of a degenerate.”

You wet your lips, and Max’s eyes caught onto them for a split second. He wouldn’t let himself acknowledge the thought that almost formed in his head.

Instead, he blinked. “Are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“So… intense.” It was a genuine question. He met people with fire, he worked with them daily, and he could consider himself one in a way ─ however, it was the contained kind. The one that was shaped to work toward a goal. You were a forest fire, spreading, in constant reach of something. Max was sure your fingerprints could burn themselves on his skin if you let them linger long enough. 

You laughed ─ loud and shameless. “Apparently. Tends to flare up when I’m bored.”

And maybe it was the alcohol, or the raucous crowd ignoring you both entirely, making it seem like you had your own, private sphere, but Max leaned forward, just enough to make your eyes imperceptibly widen by the action. It made his stomach lurch with a strange kind of pride. “And are you bored right now?”

You looked at him, gaze heavy with meaning. “Not anymore.”

Max felt something stir low in his chest ─ heat, curiosity, the burn of your drink still coating his throat. He wished he could have lingered on it, maybe make sense of it but you took it from him, leaning back and breaking the tension with a sly glint in your eyes. A reminder you were in control of the room.

“You ever poured a shot before, pretty boy?” You asked.

That was a change of topic. “Uh─ no?”

“Well, that’s about to change.”

Before he could argue, or even ask what you meant, your fingers stroked his wrist and he forgot about everything he was going to say. That’s when you tugged him forward, He didn’t resist, more out of shock than anything else, but next thing he knew he was behind the bar, ducking under the pass-through from which Coyotes went and left. Pushing him into your world.

The heat was much worse with the change of scenery ─ the lights brighter, the music louder, you right next to him.

“Are we─ Am I even allowed back there?” Max asked, stumbling slightly as he knocked into a pack of plastic cups.

“Nope,” you answered cheerfully. Just as on cue, one of your colleagues piped up, something about ‘no men on the bar’ and the wooden board of warnings at the front of the bar flashed in Max’s mind. You flipped her off lightheartedly, saying something along the line that, technically, he wasn’t on the bar. Just behind it.

From under the counter, you took out a bottle of something probably lethal and a metal shaker. “Alright, Verstappen. Time to earn your keep ─ didn’t think those drinks were for free, were you?” So that’s what it was all about. “You’re gonna help me make a round of Flaming Coyotes.”

“No way in hell that’s a real drink,” Max frowned.

“Unfortunately yes,” you said, cracking ice into a tin. “And you’re gonna light it.”

Your fingers wrapped around his hand, and Max’s heart stuttered at how your whole palm could wrap around one of his fingers. You guided it to the matchbox you set on the bar. “Relax, I’m not gonna let you burn your eyebrows off… unless you’re chicken?” You gasped, mocking.

“You really want me to set something on fire? With no… prior experience?”

“Only a little.”

You’re insane, he thought. You’re insane and he was never going to leave this bar. But Max was not sure he wanted to leave as badly as he did earlier, that’s why he lit the match.

The crowd erupted when the flame caught on the shot glasses. In front of him, Pierre, Daniel, and Charles cheered and whooped as loudly as he could, and somehow Max forgot all about them in these 20 minutes. He looked up, breathless, adrenaline buzzing through his veins like engine oil. You were watching him carefully, looking like you’d just found something very interesting in me. “Look at you,” you said, tone playful. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

And Max smiled ─ actually smiled, for the first time since this night started. Wide, boyish, and wrecked by it all, and fucking hell did he look good, you allowed yourself to think. His chest swelled with something as you smiled back. And maybe it was the fire, maybe it was the cheers. Or maybe it was you.

The following hours were spent in a blur.

Not the kind of blur Max was used to ─ it wasn’t the sharp edges of a race weekend or the post-win daze of podiums and press conferences. This was so much more different. Warm, messy in a way that curled around his senses and dimmed the seconds together until the clock disappeared.

Shots kept appearing in his hand like magic, and he went from behind to the front of the bar as he pleased ─ most of the bartenders called him an ‘Honorable Coyote’, which shouldn’t have been as funny as it was at the time. The jukebox never stopped switching music, keeping him on his toes. Lando and Pierre had stolen a mic at some point, or maybe you gave it to them for the hell of it, and slurred She’s Country by Jason Aldean so off-key some of the girls threatened to cut them off, splashing them with ice-cold water. Daniel had tried to climb on the bar twice, failing miserably because rules were rules, Charles was attempting to dance with a girl in a cowboy hat three sizes to big for her head, and Carlos was desperately explaining race strategies to a group of drunken Texan who clearly didn’t know what Formula One was.

And then there was you.

Always moving. Always glowing, whether it be from the sheen of your efforts or the loud, obnoxious ambiance that sublimed your features. You’d disappear back into the rhythm of the bar and the beat of the dance, your natural habitat, flinging bottles in the air, laughing as someone tried to kiss your hand and you sent them waltzing away, yelling over the crowd without care. And now Max was convinced people there didn’t simply think they were in love with you. They undoubtedly were ─ six steps in and all that. And he would have been bothered in any other circumstances.

But whenever Max looked up, he caught you looking at him. Every time, you smiled like you knew exactly what you were doing.

Max didn’t know how much time had passed by that point, only that his throat was dry, his cheeks flushed bright red and hurting from how much he laughed, the back of his neck scorching from something stronger than just alcohol. Somewhere along the way, the night had stopped being about celebrating a win and started being about you.

Maybe that’s how he got roped in a messy attempt at a line dance.

He tried to resist at first. Truly. Max still stood by what he said at the beginning of the night: he was a driver, not a dancer. But when you shouted to ask if everyone wanted to see an F1 World Champion do ‘a little two steps’ and everyone cheered, including his friends and colleagues, the traitors, he couldn’t bring himself to say no. Not when you stood so close to him.

You’re Easy On The Eyes by Terri Clark twanged through the jukebox, loud enough to rattle the shelves and the floorboards, while Max tried to follow your explanations. His hands were on his hips, knees knocking together as he mimicked you except he was two steps behind and overthinking it. You were outwardly mocking him by now. “Your coordination’s better in a car, huh?” You teased.

Max huffed. “You call this coordination?”

“Aw, don’t pout, baby. You’re trying.” He rolled his eyes and you stuck your tongue at him. Daniel was somewhere in the back, filming, but Max had tuned the world out. 

Somehow, in the whirl of bodies, he caught you again, his hands instinctively flying to your waist to steady himself so he wouldn’t faceplant ─ that would be the highlight of his night. Before he could process it, and you always a step ahead of him, you grabbed the cowboy hat off his head and in one slick movement, settled it on yours with a wink. The crowd roared in approval. Someone let out a sharp whistle. Max wasn’t fluent enough in Southern to know what that meant, but the half-lidded look you gave him translated across every barrier.

Game on.

You roped him into much more after that. Max followed blindly, always rising to the challenge, stuck in the daze of you. In the decadence of Coyote Ugly. In the secrecy of the nighttime, where everything felt allowed and nothing had to make sense in the morning.

By the time he was able to breathe, he’d long dismissed the idea to try and find out where his friends had scattered to. The only thing he could feel was the warmth of your hand wrapped around his wrist, tugging him past the old, swinging saloon-style door and out in the thick, velvet air of the Texan night.

The back of the bar was quieter. The hum of crickets, the soft hum of the neon signs bleeding through ancient wooden slats, and the echo of music and laughter still pulsing behind closed doors. Cardboard boxes were lying around, swallowed by the wild, uncut grass. The sky was wide and open above him, seemingly endless, stars barely cutting through the heat haze but present nonetheless. Nobody was there apart from the two of you.

Back against the structure of the bar, Max quietly watched as you lit a cigarette next to him. It didn’t surprise him in the slightest. Wordlessly, you offered him your open back with a raised eyebrow.

“I don’t smoke.” He waved it off.

You shrugged, blowing a grey cloud out to the night. He didn’t mind it ─ driving every day of your life, you get used to the smell. “I don’t really like smoking either. It just gives my hands something to do.”

Max chuckled. That didn’t surprise him either, he already figured out life moved with you and not the contrary. 

It seemed like you didn’t appreciate it when conversations stilled because you were quick to speak up again. “Didn’t think I’d see the day a world champion let a girl make a fool outta him in public,” you said, leaning against the wall. Your shoulder brushed his. The number of times you touched him tonight was too numerous to count, but this one felt different. Innocent.

Max threw a smile at you, eyes darting to his feet for a second, still a little glassy. “I’m not the type to mind.”

And that, for some reason, made you look at him. Actually look at him. The type of look stripping away the chaos, the teasing, the fire-breathing version of yourself you wore so proudly behind the bar. You looked at him and Max was faced with the fact that you were just ─ you. Still half-wild, still sharp, but a little less guarded under the moonlight.

He liked it. A lot.

“D’you always enjoy losing control that much, then?” You asked with a small smile.

Max’s lips parted to answer─ pausing.

He thought about it. How rare this was, to be in a place he didn’t understand perfectly, being in Formula One for 10 years, you get used to the pattern of events, and you know what to target when things don’t go your way to make them bend to your will. Right now, he was tangled in things whose sense escaped him, and did not want to run from it.

His voice was quieter when he finally answered. “Only tonight.”

You took that in with a nod and brought the cigarette back to your lips.

“I’m glad you came tonight, then.”

That was it. No confessions, no fireworks, but Max felt his chest tighten just the same. You were just two people, sharing the silence, letting the sticky Texas air settle into your skins, wondering what the hell would happen when tonight fades. He wasn’t ready to find out the answer yet.

So, Max asked, “What led you to this?”

“To what? Coyote Ugly?” You raised an eyebrow, blowing out a slow stream of smoke and watching it curl around the humidity.

“Yeah. Why do you do it?”

“That’s two different questions, pretty boy.”

“Guess I want an answer to both.”

You hesitated, not because you didn’t want to answer, but because no one ever asked. Not your friends, not your colleagues, much less your family who was less than understanding about your life choices.

You shifted your weight, eyes flicking toward the parking lot in the distance. “Well, I came in looking for a job, obviously.” Your voice was softer now. There was still a bit of tease around the commas, but not nearly as much. “Needed rent money. Didn’t want a desk.”

Max hummed. “Makes sense.”

You tapped the ash off the cigarette. “And then I stayed ‘cause… I dunno. You ever walk into a place and, as crazy as it sounds, even if it’s a mess, I mean like pure chaos, and wild and loud you think ─ yeah. This might be the only place I make sense? I get to perform. I get to be myself. Take up space. Alive, not rotting in place like I was scared to. I wasn’t allowed to… do all that before.”

“I get it.” He nodded.

“Didn’t think you would.”

“I race cars for a living. I get messy.”

It was meant to be a light answer, something thrown back with a crooked smile and a shrug ─ but as the words settled in the small space between you, something shifted.

Max looked out in the dark, the flicker of neon reflecting faintly off the metal of a rusted old pickup nearby. He let himself sink into the silence for a second, and you waited until he was ready to speak up again. And he did, in a whisper, more to himself than to you. “Everything’s always so… calculated. In racing. It’s controlled and measured, even the mess, you know? It’s still part of the plan, of what’s expected, somewhat.”

You turned toward him slightly, hip still leaning against the wall, cigarette flickering between your fingers.

“You’re serious,” you said. Not accusatory ─ just curious. “Like, really serious.”

He glanced at you. “And you’re not.”

“Oh, I can be. I know when not to be, which just happens to be most of the time. And I like it like that, honestly,” you shrugged. “I don’t want to be stuck in something that’ll bury me before my time, and I couldn’t see myself anywhere else now, not when I get to be unashamed like that.” Your last words were just above a whisper. “Free.”

The term stagnates for a while.

Until Max lets out a soft laugh, barely even there. “I don’t think I’ve ever been allowed to be anything else but serious.”

The words surprised him. Not because he never thought about them, but because he never said them out loud. He didn’t think he meant them. Now, they felt unescapable, slightly suffocating ─ and the way you looked at him, patient, didn’t help in the slightest. He exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It’s always about being perfect. Image, numbers, control. If I mess up, people lose money. I lose standing. Teams fall apart. Media goes insane. There’s no room to just.. exist? I guess?” His voice dips lower.

Max wasn’t about to say anything more. He sobered up too much to spill his guts further to a little more than a stranger. Yet, the way you looked at him ─ meeting his gaze with something softer than you’d shown him all night ─ and what you’ve told him, you didn’t feel like a stranger at all. You, who wore fire like perfume and laughed like a dare, stripped down to ashes.

You voiced what he was thinking. “So we’re not that different. I mean, we both perform. In our ways.”

He couldn’t figure you out, no matter how much he tried, no matter how much you’ve shown and hidden tonight but God, Max could have spent hours and hours trying to puzzle you back until you’d finally make sense.

Instead, he just dipped his head in agreement, which made you smile gently. You nudged him with your shoulder. “Alright, Verstappen. Guess you’re not just a pretty face, huh?”

Max choked on a laugh, and he couldn’t help himself. “You are, though. And a lot more.”

You rolled your eyes at his sad attempt at flirting, snorting, but the grin spreading your lips lingered for longer than it should have. Max shuffled a bit closer to you ─ subtle enough that it could’ve been the heat dragging him in ─ but not so subtle that he missed the way you shifted too, gravity pulling you both toward something unspoken.

Quiet still, you spoke up again, voice barely above the hum of the night. “It’s nice, though. People like us don’t get a lot of moments like this.” You gestured around, the empty half-alley, half-garden bathed in neon spill, the distant sounds of cricket, the sounds of the music and the people inside like a faraway dream. This. The in-between.

Max’s voice came back low, warm. “Then we should make them count.”

You turned to look at him, slower this time. And Max ─ he didn’t dare move. Just watched.

The way the light caught on your dewy skin. The glint of sweat at your temple. Your pupils blown wide, not just from the dark but from interest, curiosity. That sharp, electric pull that had lived between you all night, was finally quiet enough to be noticed.

Your eyes dropped to his lips, just for a moment. It was so fast that he thought he might have imagined it. His heart twisted anyway.

“And how are you planning on making it count, Max?”

His name, swirling around your tongue for the first time tonight ─ sweet, sharp, honey on a blade. It hit him square in the chest.

Something in his chest stammers, tires hitting gravel at full speed, and all reason is thrown aside after that. He doesn’t even know how it came to it ─ your back flush against the wall, his hands on your waist, your eyes boring into his and your cigarette half-smoked, forgotten on the gravel. He could feel your body heat as if it was his, your breath quickening at the contact. He could feel you and he wondered if you felt him just as intensely.

His eyes traced the curves of your lips and Max wondered what you tasted like. Smoke, citrus, spice. He wanted to memorize the taste, throw it into a drink he could get drunk on every night, threatening his health to grasp the memory of you again and again.

That was until─

“MAX?!” A shout echoed down the parking lot. Slurred, and unmistakably Daniel-sounding.

More followed.

“Mate, where did he fuck off to?”

“We’re leaving in ten, HURRY UP!”

It was muffled by the distance, but he knew you heard it as well. The half-smile on your face betrayed you.

“So, you gonna kiss me, pretty boy?” You asked.

It would’ve happened.

Max would’ve leaned in and would’ve chased the heat grasping his ribs whenever you looked at him. He would have mapped your mouth, the curve of your waist beneath his palms, would’ve swallowed every sound you made as he was starved for it. He would’ve kissed you and let you burn him alive, gladly, but─

The voices grew smaller. Daniel’s laugh, Pierre’s yell, Charles’ confusion. Reality bleeding back in. Max’s jaw tensed. If he waited a minute longer, he’d miss his ride. Miss the world contained in his hotel room that would stop spinning if he missed a minute off the clock.

He simply told the truth. 

“If I start,” Max murmured, “I don’t know if I’d be able to stop.”

That earned him a look. It wasn’t surprised, or angry ─ it was something a lot like expectancy, and in some way, it hurt a lot more.

You stepped forward, hand gently rising to meet his chest. The contact was light but the weight of it hit him like a crash and when you pushed, just a fraction, just enough, it wasn’t playful or teasing. It felt like goodbye dressed like mercy. You took the cowboy hat you stole from him earlier in the night and put it back on his head.

“Then don’t start something you can’t finish,” you whispered.

You gave him one last look ─ one he’d replay for days, conflicting emotions dimmed down to the flicker of a lighter in your eyes ─ and turned toward the door.

And Max felt awfully selfish when he asked the shadow of your figure, “Are you still going to be there next time?”

You didn’t even look back at him, but he saw your shoulders shake in a bittersweet sort of laugh, now out of his reach. “In a year, you mean? When the Grand Prix calls you back to Texas? I don’t wait, Max. My life isn’t drawn for me. I take my chances.”

You disappeared.

Max didn’t follow. He just stood there, the imprint of your touch still warm over his heart, wondering if this night would feel like a dream come morning. If you ever existed ─ or if Coyote Ugly had simply conjured you from the smoke and the music to remind him what wanting felt like.

He hadn’t kissed you, but he would never forget almost doing it.

When he climbed in the back of Daniel’s car, he evaded all the questions, the friendly mockery, the knowing glances, the snickering about the cowboy hat he still held in his hand like it was something breakable. Max just sat there, humming along to the comments Carlos made about the night, fidgeting with the brim and rubbing his thumb along the worn fabric like it might give him answers. Maybe it had caught something of you ─ your perfume, your voice, your laugh, the heat of your skin ─ and would let it slip back to him if he held on it long enough.

But it didn’t.

Later, Max crawled into bed with the weight of the night hanging around his ankles like shackles, dragging the air from his lungs. He didn’t sleep much. He didn’t want to.

He woke up with the sun, far too bright for the early morning, streaming through the blinds he forgot to close. He could feel his brain pulsing behind his eyes, his bloodshot eyes struggling to stay open, the remaining, chalky taste of whiskey sticking to his palate like cement. The evening flashed before him, a fever dream he wished he had the strength to push away ─ the obnoxious music, the sweat, the alcohol, and your smile.

Almost.

Max groaned, sitting up with difficulty on his bed. Every single one of his muscles ached, a sore reminder of the failed attempts at dancing and bartending he made last night ─ some spots hurt more than others, and in some measure, they felt like the shape of your hands.

The cowboy hat he had tossed last night, in the desperate attempt to stop anguishing about the brush of your breath across his lips, laid in front of him, miserable. Max couldn’t help himself and he reached for it out of instinct.

It felt cheaper than it did before, most imperfect underneath the daylight. He’d already memorized the texture and shape of the memento, obsessively tracing it, and yet it didn’t feel sufficient. He supposed it never would, and he’d have to live with this reality.

Max was about to put it back on his nightstand. To swallow down an Ibuprofen, chase it with an ice-cold shower, and carry on with his life like always. Another plane, another race, hopefully another win.

But something made him pause. He turned the hat in his hands again, just like he did a few hours before sleep took him by surprise.

And there it was. Tucked just inside the brim, where the lining met the crown ─ scrawled in smudged black ink he’d bet his life was eyeliner, barely visible unless you were compulsively looking for it─

if you dare.

A little heart, and a phone number scribbled right beside it.

Max blinked, mouth parting just slightly, heart mistaking the rhythm of his breathing for the first few notes of a country song. He read it again, and again until it stopped feeling like a trick of the light and started feeling like a choice.

He left thinking you were supposed to be one moment. One night. A blur of burn and guitar chords ─ but you’d left a door open.

And it was seemingly Max’s turn to take his chance.

©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

[mariasont]

Need a bimbo assistant reader x hotch fic where the team is making fun of hotch for having no sense of humour until we say smth like "what are you talking about? Hotch is hilarious!" And everyone just turns to hotch like "wtf??" To which he immediately changes the subject. But surprise surprise he's only trying to be funny around us to be charming 😛

The Funny Thing About Him - A.H

a/n: obsessed with this request bc this is so canon, i just know mans is saving ever stupid pun he sees on his blackberry to tell bimbo reader lololo

but thank you so much for the request lovely!

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader

warnings: alcohol consumption, flirtiness galore, hotch being whipped and not knowing it yet, the team being a menace and lowkey bullying hotch, unintentional simping, bimbo!reader glazing hotch's sense of humor

wc: 1.9k

It was a rare thing for the team to spend time together outside of work, and even rarer to do so in a place like this. A dive bar that looked like it hadn't seen a deep clean since the Bush administration. But Garcia had insisted — no, demanded —that they all check out what she had referred to as her second office. 

So here you were, crammed into a tiny booth with the team, surrounded by mismatched furniture, sticky tabletops, and walls that had somehow absorbed the faint tang of stale beer as if it were part of their structural integrity. But after a round of drinks, then appetizers, then more drinks, it had become kind of charming in a deeply questionable way.

Everyone had seemed to have loosened up. Hotch, naturally, was the exception. Seated at the edge of the booth, he looked almost hilariously out of place, like someone had photoshopped him into the scene. His posture was straight as ever, his suit jacket neatly draped on the back of his chair, and fingers loosely curled around a glass of whiskey. 

He was listening, though, as he always did, dark eyes flicking to whoever was speaking, his small nods he only thing that gave him away.

You, however, were hyper-aware of Hotch for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with professionalism. The small booth had left you wedged between him and Garcia, and you couldn't decide if it was a blessing or a curse. On one hand, it meant you were close enough to feel the heat radiating from him, smell the woodsy, expensive cologne he always wore, and notice the little ways his expression softened just a hair every time you caught him glancing your way.

On the other hand, well, all those things were very distracting. 

Like, very distracting.

Garcia was mid-story — something dramatic about a terrible date, an allergic reaction, and a wig — but you weren't really listening. You were trying, of course, but your mind seemed too busy cataloging the way your elbow accidentally brushed against Hotch's every time you shifted, or how your knees kept grazing under the table.

Each time, you'd mutter a quick, oops, sorry, and each time, you absolutely did not mean it.

You liked testing the boundaries with him, liked noticing his reactions. In fact, you liked being able to notice most things about him, the little details no one else seemed to catch.

Like how he had this funny way of pressing his lips together when he was reading something particularly dense, like he was silently judging whoever wrote it. Or how he always seemed to have a spare hair tie ready in his desk drawer because yours snapped at the worst possible moments, and somehow, he always had it ready right when you needed it, like he'd been waiting for you to ask. 

Or how, right now, he kept subtly hovering a hand behind your head every time you leaned back in laughter, like he was ready to stop you from accidentally smacking the back of your head against the hard wood of the booth.

It made you feel warm and fizzy, like you’d downed one too many sugary cocktails. Which, honestly, you might have.

"Hotch," Garcia suddenly blurted, dragging you out of your thoughts. "Back me up here, there's no way this is the worst first day you've ever heard of."

He blinked, seemingly caught off guard. "I... I suppose it's up there."

Morgan grinned and shook his head. "Hotch, your definition of worst first date is probably someone not knowing how to file their taxes. You’ve got zero imagination for this stuff."

You glanced at Hotch, who just shrugged, not even bothering to defend himself.

No imagination, Morgan had said, and for some reason, you couldn’t help but try to picture it, Hotch on a date.

At first, the idea felt completely out of place, like imagining a celebrity shopping for milk. But then, the image started to take shape — he’d show up early, wearing one of those perfectly tailored suits that made him look like he belonged on the cover of GQ. 

He’d pull out your chair, open every door, and probably order something practical, like steak or chicken. And even if the conversation started stiffly, he’d listen so intently, like every word you said mattered. By the end of the night, you’d be completely smitten.

Not that you’d thought about it or anything.

“I think you’re underselling him,” JJ said with a knowing smile, glancing at Hotch. “He might not have the most obvious imagination, but he has a way of surprising people.”

Emily snorted. “Yeah, right. Hotch probably schedules his surprises. Like, plan to laugh sometime between 8:00 and 8:15 PM.”

Morgan grinned, leaning back in his chair. “Hotch doesn’t laugh. He probably just stares at people mid-joke, makes them uncomfortable, and calls it a win.”

Hotch arched a brow. “I wasn’t aware my sense of humor was under scrutiny tonight.”

“Oh, come on,” Morgan said, his grin widening. “You’ve gotta admit, Hotch, you’re not exactly cracking jokes left and right. Your idea of funny is telling someone they’re late for work when they’re actually on time.”

“That was funny,” Hotch deadpanned.

The table erupted into laughter, and even Emily shook her head, biting back a grin. “You’re proving his point, you know.”

“What are you guys talking about? Hotch is hilarious.”

The table fell silent. Every single person turned to look at you like you’d just claimed the sky was green. Even Hotch stiffened beside you, his glass halfway to his lips.

Morgan’s head tilted, his grin fading into something more incredulous. “What did you just say?”

“Hotch?” Emily asked, her face the picture of astonishment. “Did you… did you bribe her to say that?”

“No!” you said quickly, holding up your hands like you were defending yourself. “I mean it! He’s, like, really funny!”

“Hotch?” Garcia repeated, looking at you like you’d sprouted a second head. “Our Hotch?”

“How can you guys not think he’s funny? I laugh at his jokes all the time.”

Hotch, who up until this point had been composed despite the teasing, suddenly looked… well, less composed. His lips parted like he was going to say something, but then he clamped them shut, the faintest tinge of pink creeping up his neck and settling across his cheeks.

Emily smirked, glancing between you and Hotch. “Okay, now I have to hear these so-called jokes you think are hilarious.”

You turned back to them, still looking baffled. “Well, I can’t just, like, repeat  them! It’s all in the timing. Hotch just… he has a vibe. You wouldn’t get it.”

The team erupted into laughter, but you just sighed dramatically, crossing your arms and turning back to Hotch. “Seriously, Aaron, tell them.”

Hotch cleared his throat, setting his glass down a little too forcefully.

 “So, Garcia,” he said quickly, his voice normal but his ears tinged red, “about this terrible first date —”

Hotch shot you a quick, almost panicked glance, but you pretended not to notice. Either way, you popped the fry into your mouth and smiled at him like you hadn’t just completely upended his reputation in front of the entire team.

Eventually the bar had mostly emptied out, including your team, the once-loud chatter replaced by the occasional creak of chairs and muffled laughter from the remaining patrons. You stood by the door, fiddling with the zipper of your jacket as another rush of cold air blew in when someone left. The chill bit at your cheeks. It wasn't the warmest coat in the world, but it was adorable, which you felt was more important.

Before you could even complain, however, Hotch stepped forward, placing himself squarely between you and the wind.

"Did you have fun tonight?"

You beamed at him, fingers idly playing with the end of your scarf. You took a small step closer, partly to escape the wind, partly for reasons you didn't feel you needed to disclose.

"Always," you said, tilting your head to examine him closely. "Did you?"

He nodded. "I did."

You blinked up at him. "Really? Even with everyone giving you such a hard time? I mean, they were relentless tonight.”

“They can’t help themselves." He huffed out a soft laugh, his breath misting in the cold air. Then, with a dry edge, he added, “And to be fair, I think I handled it better than you handled the fries Garcia stole from your plate.”

You giggled, covering your mouth with one hand.

“Hey! That was a crime! I had every right to be upset!” Hotch chukled softly, shaking his head. “See?” you said, poking him in the arm. “You’re funny! You are! Why aren’t you like that around everyone else?”

Hotch glanced at you, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly. “I think I just… read the room.”

Hotch’s vague answer left you with more questions than clarity, but you didn’t push him. The more you thought about it, the more certain you became —he was different with you.

Hotch didn’t crack jokes in the bullpen — not unless you were there. He didn’t tell silly stories during late-night case reviews — not unless it was just the two of you staying behind in the office, sorting through files. Like that time he told you about his college roommate, you’d laughed so hard you couldn’t breathe, and he’d chuckled softly, shaking his head like he hadn’t expected you to find it so funny.

Or the way he’d once walked by your desk and dropped a note on it that said, if it gets any colder in here, we’ll be solving frostbite cases next. You still had it tucked away in your drawer.

The thought made you feel a bit warmer, like you’d just downed a champagne flute in one gulp. Your cheeks hurt from how hard you were smiling, and before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out.

“You know, you’re the best boss ever. Have I told you that before?”

Hotch turned his head toward you, one eyebrow raised. “What do you want?” 

“Nothing!” you said quickly, your grin widening. “I’m just being honest!”

Hotch raised an eyebrow. "I hope you remember that next time you're twenty minutes late to a meeting because there was a sale at Bloomingdale’s."

You gave him your sweetest, most innocent smile.

“Well, maybe if you came with me to the sale, you wouldn’t have to wait twenty minutes for me to show up.” You leaned a little closer, your voice dropping into a teasing sing-song. “And I bet you’d look so cute holding my shopping bags.”

Hotch rolled his eyes, his expression impossibly dry. “I think I’ll leave the shopping bag modeling to Reid. He’s probably got the legs for it.”

You burst into a fit of giggles, covering your mouth with your gloved hands. “Okay, now you’re just messing with me!”

He exhaled a small laugh, finally relenting. “Alright, let’s go before you freeze.”

Still laughing, you looped your arm back through his and gave it a little squeeze as the two of you walked through the door. 

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[yugsly]

How does one get a job in the creative industry when entry-level positions do not exist there and you need to have a mile-long resume that makes Don Bluth and Richard Williams look like Chris-chan to even be CONSIDERED for a position? Animation, filmmaking, and game development are all multi-person jobs and all the resources for them are exclusive to California or foreign countries we can't afford to move to. Most artists can't afford to run their own business all by themselves or fill every single role of the production pipeline. Why are connections and experience required to join the industry when the only way to gain those things is through said industry and expensive colleges that drown you in unpayable debt for the rest of your life?

Are you talking exclusively about the animation industry? Yeah. It's pretty screwed up right now. Not even esteemed showrunners like Maxwell Atoms [Billy & Mandy] (who recently had to sell his house and decades worth of his show's memorabilia to make ends meet) and freaking CRAIG MCCRACKEN [Powerpuff Girls, Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends, Wander Over Yonder etc] can get jobs off the ground without it being like, a reboot or anything. Seriously. It's not you. It's not your talent, your social skills, etc- right now, it's just the industry being in a rough place. So many wonderful artists with decorated successful careers are getting NOTHING right now. I know it sucks, but really you can only stay vigilant and wait right now. Build your skills. Build your network. You can do this without college. Having done college, I know this- it is more about self discipline and research, I think. Having the structure of school is good, but you can really sort of forge your own path when it comes down to it. Make friends with artists you like, be normal, be cordial- don't do it just for connections' sake, but for comraderies' sake. Y'know? Make plans, make your own schedules... it's tough, but doable. I've never been ""employed"" fully before.

I might *look* "successful" on the surface because I've made a lot of things, be it with friends, or by myself- but really the "success" is just the visible joy and community these projects have made. It is beautiful to see how much my friends and I have inspired you all. I love it, treasure it. In terms of financial success... not so much, sorry to say. Sometimes I wonder how much longer I'll be able to pay for things- I have a lot of terrible medical conditions lately, and slightly outclass qualifying for medicaid, so... not sure what will happen. I need to get an organ fully removed soon. So. Haha. ???????? Sorry that was a bit of a tangent. Things are rough right now for everyone, and I am sorry this is not the most hopeful message. It is better to be truthful, I think. Don't give up though, prepare yourself, your skills, there will be a day when the animation industry is in a place where it will be ready for you.

[nezuscribe]

there was this one time you and slytherin!gojo were walking back from the library after it closed, something the two of you did more frequently ever since you had gotten closer since working on that tedious transfiguration essay.

you’re talking about something, not noting the way slytherin!gojo could barely take his eyes off of you, and you’re too busy to notice the other pair of voices that’s about the round the corner.

your eyes shot up at the familiar sounds of other slytherins from your ear, your stare darting over to gojo, knowing he’d be caught dead before he’d be seen in public with you (he wouldn’t, but you didn’t know about the internal turmoil he was going through)

so instead, in your fit of anxiety, you just find your way into the nearest broom closet, expecting him to just leave, but he follows closely behind you in confusion.

“what are you doing?” he’d asked hushed, clearly not caring as your face of confusion mirrors his.

“i heard tillys voice,” you say as if it was obvious, but his white brows just furrow even more.

“…so?” he draws out, leaning closer to the wooden door to hear it for himself.

“what do you mean so?” you ask hushed, “isn’t she one of your closest friends?”

but he either chooses not to answer or just doesn’t hear you over the fact that he tries to open the door but to no avail, rattling the handle, his lips pursing as if refused to budge.

“how’d you manage to do that?” you ask, looking over his shoulder as he gives you a look of annoyance, his eyes rolling as he fidgets with the lock.

“i didn’t do anything, you’re the one who shoved us in here,” he mutters, brining out his wand as he tries to fix it.

“you followed me in!” you reply with a shocked laugh, dragging your hand over your exhausted face as you come to terms with the fact that you might be stuck in this stuffy room longer than you expected.

gojo tries a couple of spells but nothing works. he looks over his shoulder, shooting you a look.

“what?” you snap, exhausted and annoyed that he was putting the blame on you when you were the one trying to spare his stupid reputation.

“nothing,” he answers, shrugging as he leans back on the door, “was just trying to find the best place of the floor to sleep on.”

you groan, pushing him aside as you try to open it yourself.

you’ve gotten close enough to him over the past couple of weeks were this is normal, where this sort of banter isn’t out of the norm. it’s almost like you see friends interact with each other.

you feel heat rise in your cheeks at your close proximity, feeling his eyes bore into the side of your face as you try casting your own spells. you’re rarely so close to him that you can smells his lingering cologne, or hear the little puffs of air that escape his nose. his lanky and structured frame almost lean over you, but you try to ignore that.

“why’d you care about tilly?” he asks suddenly, his voice hushed, blue eyes shining as yours snap over to his.

you shake your head, nose wrinkling as you look away, trying to distract yourself with fixing the lock.

“why don’t you care about tilly?” you shoot back, your brow raises, stare still focused on the brass handle.

“because she’s dull,” gojo says instantly, the two of you so close together where you can feel his heat on your skin, “she can barely think on her own accord, she follows me around everywhere and…” a part of him wants to say she’s not like you, but it seems like lately he’s been wanting to say that about all of the people he’s considered his friends, “she’s spoiled.”

you ignore the beat of your heart against your rib cage, swallowing thickly as trying to focus on your spells gets increasingly harder.

“you’re spoiled,” you say, not knowing what else to comment as you hear him snort.

“so you avoid her because she’s spoiled?” he mutters teasingly, his eyes taking in your features; the curve of your lisps the little crease between your brows as your focus the slope of your nose.

you cast a glance at him, watching as he shrugs.

“i avoid her because she once stole my coin purse last month and used it to buy scarves.” the door clicks open, the light from the hall seeping in. but the two of you don’t make a move to leave.

his face falls, and you catch it.

“but i guess she’s a little dull too,” you mutter indifferently, feeling like you couldn’t blink with the way he was looking at you.

you’re the first that leaves, grabbing your bag as you make your way to the dorms.

little did you expect that a couple days later tilly would bashfully make her way to your room, giving you the money back that she had taken a couple weeks earlier, her head hanging low as you look around wildly in confusion.

and little did you know that gojo was well aware of how to fix a broken lock. he just didn’t really seem to care that much to fix it that night.

[goldfades]

crazy cat people───joe burrow⁹

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 4.4k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you and joe had always been cat people—dogs were just too high maintenance, too needy. but you were never in a hurry to get cats until one night, joe finds a cat on a roadie and decides to bring her home.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | literally nothing but cat dad joe, and dog slander (JK!! not really, but we all know joe likes cats better). inspired by this clip.

The thing about Joe is that he’s always been a cat person.

You figured it out on your second date when the conversation somehow derailed into a passionate debate about why people automatically assume dogs are superior. It started off as a joke—some exaggerated takes for the sake of banter—but then Joe hit you with a well-structured argument about the independent nature of cats, their low-maintenance lifestyle, and the way they choose their people rather than blindly loving everyone.

“You ever seen a cat follow some random stranger home just ‘cause they waved at it? No. That’s some dog behavior.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “No self-respect.”

That was the moment you knew he was the one.

Well, not actually, but it definitely solidified your interest. Three years later, the two of you were still going strong, bound together by an undeniable connection, a deep understanding of each other’s quirks, and a shared stance that dogs—while undeniably adorable—were just a little too much. Too excitable. Too dependent. Too… needy.

“We’d be cat people,” you had declared one night while curled up on the couch together, his arm draped lazily around you. “Like, if we were to get a pet.”

Joe hummed in agreement, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Yeah, but I feel like we’d be picky about it. Can’t just have any cat. Gotta be one with personality.”

“A little bit of an asshole,” you added.

He chuckled. “Exactly.”

Despite countless conversations about what you’d name your hypothetical future cat (the list had ranged from elegant, sophisticated names like Theodora to complete chaos like Little Shit), you never actually got one. Between Joe’s insane schedule and your own busy life, it never felt like the right time. You weren’t the type to impulsively adopt an animal just because it seemed like a cute idea—you took responsibility seriously. Joe was the same way.

But that didn’t stop you from sending him TikToks of cats daily. And it definitely didn’t stop him from pausing the TV anytime a cat appeared in a commercial, just to point and go, “That one’s kinda cool.”

It was just one of those things. A little inside joke, a shared fantasy, a part of your relationship that existed in theory but had yet to materialize.

Until Joe came back from a road trip with something unexpected.

Something small. And furry. And wrapped in the hoodie he had worn on the plane.

A cat.

He met your wide-eyed stare with a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck. “So, funny story…”

--

It was one of those quiet, in-between days where everything felt a little dull without Joe around. You were used to it by now—his road trips, the stretches of time where you had to keep yourself entertained—but no matter how well you adjusted, the house always felt bigger when he wasn’t in it.

You filled the day the best way you knew how. Running errands, grabbing coffee from the spot down the street, making small talk with the barista who always remembered your order. You spent an unreasonable amount of time in Target, browsing the aisles aimlessly, tossing things into your cart that you definitely didn’t need but convinced yourself were essentials.

A candle? Necessary. A new throw blanket even though you already had five? An investment. A little ceramic dish shaped like a cat’s face? Joe would think it was funny.

By the time you got home, the sun was beginning to set, casting the living room in soft golden light. You went through your usual routine—changing into something comfier, throwing your hair up, and scrolling through your phone while curled up on the couch.

Joe had texted you earlier to say his flight landed on time, but you weren’t sure when he’d actually walk through the door. Traveling always took it out of him, and sometimes he lingered at the facility longer than necessary, just to settle back into the routine of being home.

So when you heard the familiar sound of the front door unlocking, you perked up, setting your phone down.

Joe was home.

You stood, stretching a little before padding over to greet him—only to immediately freeze in place.

Because Joe Burrow, your extremely predictable, routine-driven boyfriend, was standing in the doorway holding a cat.

Not a cat carrier. Not a box from the pet store with a new cat inside. No, he was physically holding a cat in his arms, cradling it like some kind of newborn wrapped in the oversized hoodie he had worn on the plane.

“Uh…” You blinked, trying to make sense of the situation. “Joe?”

Joe, looking far too casual for someone who had just walked into your shared home with a whole animal, shot you a sheepish grin.

“So, funny story…” He shifted slightly, adjusting his grip on the tiny creature, who—shockingly—seemed completely unbothered.

You didn’t say anything. You just stared. Because what the hell were you supposed to say?

Joe cleared his throat, rocking back on his heels. “I found him at a gas station. In, like… the middle of nowhere.”

Your brain short-circuited. “What?”

“Yeah. Just… chilling. No collar, no tags, nothing.” He looked down at the cat, then back at you, as if that explanation was supposed to justify the fact that he had apparently just kidnapped an animal. “He walked right up to me. Super chill. Thought, you know, maybe he needed a home.”

“You—” You ran a hand down your face, processing. “So you just… took him?”

Joe shrugged, completely unbothered. “No one stopped me.”

You stared at him, then at the cat, then back at him.

The cat—a small, scrappy-looking thing with fluffy black fur and bright green eyes—gave the smallest little stretch before curling back up into the fabric of Joe’s hoodie, as if this was the most natural situation in the world.

A sigh left your lips, half-exasperated, half-amused. “You stole a cat.”

Joe scoffed. “I didn’t steal him. I rescued him.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Did you check to see if he belonged to anyone?”

Joe paused. “I mean… he was alone.”

“That is not an answer.”

“Well, no one else was around,” Joe defended. “It was late. Freezing cold. I couldn’t just leave him there.”

You crossed your arms, arching a brow. “So your solution was to bring him home?”

Joe, completely unrepentant, grinned. “Yeah. He’s cool, right?”

You exhaled slowly, pressing your fingers against your temples before shaking your head.

This man.

This six-foot-four NFL quarterback who spent three years claiming you guys would be extremely selective about what kind of cat you got, had apparently abandoned all standards the second a gas station stray blinked at him.

And worse? You were already kind of attached.

Because the damn cat was still curled up in his hoodie, looking completely at peace, like he had already decided he belonged here.

You sighed, waving them both inside. “I can’t believe you.”

Joe grinned, stepping past you and into the house, clearly taking that as a win.

“Should we name him?” he asked, already making himself comfortable on the couch, cat still in tow.

You groaned.

“Oh my God.”

The first night with Miss Honey felt strangely natural, like she had always belonged here. Apparently, you guys had been misgendering her the whole time.

After the initial shock of Joe casually waltzing into your home with a stray cat, the two of you got to work making sure she was okay. A quick check revealed she was mostly healthy—just a little underweight and carrying a few ticks, which you carefully removed while Joe held her still, murmuring soft reassurances. Despite being a random cat from a gas station, she was surprisingly chill about it, blinking up at you with those big green eyes like she already trusted you.

“This is insane,” you had muttered, brushing your fingers through her soft fur.

Joe, stretched out on the couch beside you, smirked. “Yeah, but you love it.”

You rolled your eyes because, of course, he was right.

That night, the three of you curled up on the couch and put on Matilda, your mutual comfort movie. Joe made popcorn, you pulled out the throw blanket you had impulse-bought earlier that day, and Miss Honey—named after the warm, soft-spoken teacher you both adored—made herself right at home between you, paws tucked neatly beneath her little body.

“She’s purring,” Joe whispered at one point, as if he was afraid saying it too loud would make her stop.

You had just smiled, gently scratching behind her ears. “Yeah. I think she likes us.”

It took less than twenty-four hours for Miss Honey to fully take over the house.

By the next morning, she had already established herself as a permanent fixture, weaving between your legs as you made coffee, hopping onto the couch like she owned the place, and—much to Joe’s delight—curling up on his chest while he lounged around watching film.

“She’s got good taste,” he mused, running a slow hand down her back.

You, sitting cross-legged on the floor sorting through your Target bags from yesterday, shot him a look. “You mean ‘cause she likes you?”

Joe grinned, glancing down at the cat who was currently making biscuits against his hoodie. “I mean, can you blame her?”

You snorted. “Unreal.”

Still, you had to admit—Miss Honey really did love Joe.

At first, you thought it was just convenience. He ran warm, he was still for long periods of time, and his heartbeat was steady enough to lull anyone to sleep. But over the next few days, it became clear that her attachment went deeper than that.

She followed him from room to room, her tiny paws padding against the hardwood whenever he moved. If Joe was at the kitchen counter making breakfast, Miss Honey was right there beside him, tail flicking lazily. If he was tying his shoes by the door, she sat next to him, watching intently like she had somewhere to be, too.

It was ridiculous.

“She’s obsessed with you,” you pointed out one night, arms crossed as you watched her bat playfully at the drawstrings of his hoodie.

Joe grinned, scratching under her chin. “Yeah, but don’t be jealous.”

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the warmth blooming in your chest.

Because, truthfully, you loved it.

You loved that she trusted him. Loved that this cat—who had spent who-knows-how-long fending for herself—had chosen you both, nestled herself into the space between you like she had been there forever.

It didn’t take long for Miss Honey to establish a routine.

Every morning, without fail, she woke Joe up first. Not you—Joe.

You learned this the hard way when you woke up one morning to a quiet, disgruntled “Jesus,” followed by the sound of Joe shifting beside you. Blinking blearily, you turned over, only to find Miss Honey perched delicately on his chest, staring down at him like she was assessing whether or not it was time for him to get up.

“Babe,” Joe whispered, voice still thick with sleep. “Your cat is harassing me.”

You stifled a laugh, rubbing your eyes. “She’s your cat too.”

“Yeah, well, tell her to chill.”

Miss Honey, completely ignoring his complaints, took that exact moment to lean down and press her tiny nose against his, like a little wake-up kiss.

You melted on the spot.

Joe groaned, but even half-asleep, he couldn’t hide his smile.

From then on, it became a thing. Every morning, she woke Joe up first, then trotted to the kitchen like a little queen expecting breakfast. She had a schedule, and she stuck to it.

By the end of the second week, she had also taken over bedtime.

One night, you were finishing up in the bathroom when Joe called out from the bedroom, amusement lacing his voice.

“You’re getting replaced.”

You stepped into the room, brows furrowed. “What?”

Joe tilted his head toward the bed, where Miss Honey was curled up on his pillow, perfectly nestled into the space where your head usually went.

You crossed your arms. “Unreal.”

Joe smirked, patting the mattress beside him. “Sorry, babe. She called dibs.”

You shook your head, sliding into bed anyway, and—because Miss Honey was the most spoiled creature on the planet—you let her stay.

She purred contently between you, tucked snugly between your bodies, and Joe reached out, running a slow hand down her back before catching your gaze.

“I think she was meant to be ours,” he murmured, voice soft in the dark.

Your heart swelled.

Because he was right.

At first, Miss Honey had been a little more drawn to Joe. It wasn’t anything personal—she liked you just fine—but there was something about him that had her stuck to him like glue. Maybe it was his warmth, or the steady way he carried himself, or the fact that he had been the one to scoop her up from the cold and bring her home.

But after a couple of weeks, things started shifting.

It wasn’t sudden. There was no grand moment of realization where she decided, Actually, I love you too. It was slower than that—small moments that gradually built into something solid, something certain.

It was the way she started lingering in the kitchen while you made breakfast, winding around your ankles, soft fur brushing against your bare legs as she meowed up at you like she was part of the conversation.

It was how she started climbing onto your lap while you were reading, kneading her tiny paws into your stomach before curling up and purring herself to sleep, like you were something safe.

It was how she started following you into the bathroom whenever you did your skincare at night, sitting neatly by the sink and watching you with lazy, half-lidded eyes, as if she was deeply invested in your routine.

She was still Joe’s shadow, but you had become hers.

And it didn’t go unnoticed.

“She likes you now,” Joe teased one night, watching as Miss Honey happily stretched out on your chest, perfectly content.

You smirked, scratching under her chin. “She always liked me.”

“Nah,” he mused, tossing an arm around your shoulders. “She tolerated you. Big difference.”

You gasped dramatically. “How dare you?”

Joe chuckled, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “Hey, it’s a compliment. You won her over.”

And you had.

Miss Honey wasn’t just a cat anymore. She was your cat. An irreplaceable little presence in the house.

Joe, naturally, leaned into it full force.

It started with the essentials.

A bed. A few toys. Some high-quality cat food that Joe meticulously researched before purchasing. He wasn’t about to give her just anything—he wanted the best, reading reviews like he was about to draft a new teammate.

You had laughed the first time you caught him looking up “best cat food brands for digestion” on his phone.

“Joe, she was literally eating bugs two weeks ago.”

“Yeah, and now she’s got standards,” he shot back, tapping on a link. “This one’s got good ingredients.”

And that was just the beginning.

Before long, Joe was going all out—buying her the best litter (something natural and odor-free, because only the best for our girl), a selection of premium treats (“That Temptations crap is all filler,” he had said, with so much conviction you almost cried laughing), and multiple collars in different colors and patterns.

One morning, you caught him kneeling by the front door, carefully adjusting the tiny blue velvet collar around Miss Honey’s neck.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, leaning against the doorway, watching as he straightened the little golden name tag.

Joe glanced up, grinning. “She looks good though, right?”

You had to admit—she did.

But the real turning point? The sweaters.

That was unexpected.

It had started as a joke—one lazy evening, the two of you scrolling through Etsy, looking at cat accessories for fun.

“Wouldn’t she look cute in this?” you had said, showing Joe a tiny, knitted sweater in a soft cream color.

Joe snorted. “No way she’d wear that.”

Turns out, she would. And she’d like it.

The first time you slipped a tiny sweater over her head, Miss Honey barely reacted—just gave a big stretch, turned in a circle, and promptly plopped down on Joe’s lap like nothing was different.

Joe, stunned, just blinked.

“You’re telling me she’s okay with this?”

“She’s thriving,” you corrected, grinning.

And from that moment on, Joe took it as a personal mission to build her wardrobe.

Over the next week, more sweaters arrived in the mail—different colors, different materials, even a tiny hoodie with ears.

“This is getting out of hand,” you commented as Joe unboxed yet another package.

He held up a tiny lavender sweater, inspecting the material. “It’s for layering.”

You stared at him. “Joe, she’s a cat.”

Joe just smirked. “A stylish one.”

Miss Honey, stretched out on the couch, gave a slow blink, completely unbothered by the chaos she had brought into your lives.

And, honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Three months in, and neither of you could remember what life was like before Miss Honey.

It wasn’t just that she had settled into your home—she had settled into you, woven herself into the rhythm of your days so seamlessly that the idea of waking up without her little body curled between you or coming home to a silent house felt… wrong.

Mornings were different now.

Gone were the days of lazy, drawn-out wake-ups—Miss Honey made sure of that. If Joe’s alarm didn’t get him up, her tiny little paws kneading into his chest certainly did. And if he dared try to roll over and ignore her? She’d take matters into her own hands.

Or, more accurately, her own whiskers.

One morning, you caught her using her best tactic yet—pressing her nose right against Joe’s, whiskers tickling his face until he groaned and finally peeled one eye open.

“You are the most spoiled creature on the planet,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep.

Miss Honey responded by immediately rubbing her face against his chin, purring like a little engine.

Joe exhaled a laugh, eyes still heavy as he let his fingers trail through her fur. “Unreal.”

Meanwhile, your mornings had changed in a different way.

You used to make coffee alone, sipping it in peaceful solitude before starting your day. Now? You had company.

Miss Honey had claimed her spot on the counter—perched delicately by the coffee machine, watching your every move like an executive overseeing production.

“Supervising?” you’d ask her, sprinkling cinnamon into your cup.

She’d blink, tail flicking lazily.

Joe, walking into the kitchen at just the right moment, would snort. “She’s your little manager.”

And it was true—Miss Honey was involved in everything.

She had a routine. A life. A set of unspoken rules that ran the house.

If one of you was on the couch? She was there too, curled up in the crook of your leg or sprawled across Joe’s chest. If you were cooking? She was on the floor, watching you with silent judgment, like a tiny food critic.

If Joe was watching game film, she’d climb onto his lap and stare at the screen, like she had some real thoughts about the Bengals' offense.

She had her little preferences, too. She didn’t care for loud noises but loved when Joe played music on his speakers. She always sat with you while you read, always meowed when she wanted attention, and—for some reason—seemed particularly obsessed with Joe’s socks.

“She’s weird,” Joe said one night, watching as she enthusiastically dragged one of his socks across the living room like it was her prized possession.

“You brought home a gas station cat,” you reminded him. “What did you expect?”

Joe exhaled a laugh, shaking his head as he reached down to scratch behind her ears. “She’s perfect.”

And she was.

She had changed things in the smallest, most meaningful ways.

The house didn’t feel empty when Joe was away anymore—not when you had her little paws padding around, her soft purrs filling the silence. Even on the loneliest days, she made it better, curling into you like she just knew.

And Joe—he had changed, too.

If he had been a cat person before, he was fully in his Cat Dad era now.

It had started subtly. The good food, the high-quality litter, the little sweaters he kept ordering. But at some point, it escalated.

Joe started carrying her around the house, tucking her into his hoodie when he was watching film, talking to her like she was an actual human being.

“Alright, Miss Honey,” he said one afternoon, kneeling in front of her as she lounged lazily on her little cat bed. “We got options. You wanna wear the blue sweater or the gray one today?”

You, standing in the doorway with your arms crossed, stared at him. “Joe.”

He looked up, completely unashamed. “She likes choices.”

“She’s a cat.”

Joe just smirked, holding up the tiny sweaters. “A stylish one.”

And then there was the Ja’Marr conversation.

One night, after practice, Ja’Marr had made a casual joke—something about how “one cat turns into five real quick,” laughing at the idea of Joe slowly becoming that guy.

You had laughed too, shaking your head. “No way. We’re a one-cat household.”

Joe had nodded in agreement, completely confident. “Yeah, no shot.”

But then… a week later, he changed his tune.

You were curled up together on the couch, Miss Honey stretched between you, when Joe sighed, absentmindedly running his fingers down her back.

“She’s kinda lonely,” he mused.

You blinked. “What?”

Joe glanced over, tilting his head toward Miss Honey, who was currently kneading her little paws into his thigh. “I mean, she’s got us, but, like… I bet she’d like a friend.”

You stared at him, narrowing your eyes. “Joe.”

“I’m just saying,” he continued, tone easy, like he wasn’t suggesting something huge. “She’s got so much energy. I think she’d like a buddy.”

Your jaw dropped. “Oh my God.”

Joe grinned. “Just think about it.”

And just like that, the conversation had started. And you had been so firm about it. Absolutely not. No second cat.

Miss Honey was thriving—happy, healthy, and fully attached to both of you. The idea of bringing another cat into the house felt risky. What if she didn’t like it? What if she got territorial? What if she felt betrayed?

Joe, of course, had started planting the idea like a damn politician.

“I just think she gets bored sometimes,” he would say casually while Miss Honey chased her own tail in the living room.

“She’s got a lot of love to give,” he mused one night, watching her rub up against every single one of your ankles like she was making the rounds.

“She needs a little sidekick,” he argued as she sprawled out dramatically on the kitchen floor, meowing at nothing in particular.

You shot him down every time.

Until, of course, fate decided to step in.

It was a random Saturday, and you and Joe were out running errands—nothing special, just a casual grocery run. You had been debating what kind of bread to get (Joe insisted the multigrain one tasted just as good as white bread, which was a blatant lie), when something caught his eye.

“Babe,” Joe said, suddenly abandoning the cart and heading toward the entrance. “Look.”

You turned, frowning as you followed his gaze.

Right outside the store, under a big white tent, was a cat rescue group—volunteers standing beside crates filled with tiny, curious faces.

A pet adoption event.

Joe immediately turned to you, eyes lighting up. “This is a sign.”

“No, it’s not,” you argued, grabbing the cart. “It’s just Saturday.”

“It’s a sign.”

You groaned as he practically dragged you toward the tent, already grinning like he had just won the lottery.

And then you saw them.

The kittens.

Tiny, wiggly little things with big eyes and oversized paws, rolling around in their blankets or climbing the sides of their enclosures with impressive determination.

You told yourself you were just looking.

Joe was crouched down almost immediately, eyes scanning the different crates as the volunteers smiled at him.

“You guys looking to adopt?” one of them asked.

Joe grinned. “Maybe.”

You shot him a glare. “We are not looking to—”

And then you saw her.

A tiny gray tabby, tucked in the corner of her crate, nibbling sleepily at her own paw. Big round eyes, the softest little face, and an expression that screamed, Yeah, I know I’m cute.

You inhaled sharply.

“Oh no,” Joe murmured, catching the look on your face.

You glanced at him, then back at the kitten.

“… I wanna hold her.”

Joe grinned. “Knew it.”

The second the volunteer placed the kitten in your hands, you were done for. She was so small, her little body barely bigger than your palm. She meowed—tiny and sweet—before immediately nuzzling into the crook of your neck, purring like she had just found home.

Joe, watching intently, exhaled a laugh. “Oh yeah. We’re done for.”

That night, you walked into your house as a two-cat household.

Miss Honey was not immediately sold.

The introduction process was slow—gentle, cautious. You followed all the steps, kept them separated at first, let them get used to each other’s scent. But, much to your surprise, Miss Honey didn’t react with any real aggression.

Mostly? She just seemed deeply confused.

The first time she saw the kitten, she just stared, tail flicking, as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.

Joe, crouched beside her, grinned. “You got a little sister, Honey.”

Miss Honey turned her head, fixing him with a look.

You laughed. “I don’t think she asked for one.”

Still, within a few days, things started shifting.

The kitten—who you decided to name Fig—was relentless in her pursuit of Miss Honey’s love.

She followed her everywhere, mimicked her every move, and—on more than one occasion—attempted to curl up against her, only to be met with a single, unimpressed flick of the tail.

But then, one morning, you woke up to find them curled up together on the couch—Miss Honey’s paw resting protectively over Fig’s tiny little body.

Joe, standing beside you, smirked. “Told you she needed a buddy.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart felt full.

And that’s how you and Joe became crazy cat people.

[keepingitformyself]

but i am flesh and blood (and this flesh has needs)

A/N: THE GIRLS ARE BACK!!!!!

synopsis: if it wasn’t for the crash, you wouldn’t have ever known of the quiet thing that bubbled for you inside of lottie matthews. the worst part, you can’t decide if it would’ve been better if you never knew at all.

word count: 5.4k

pairings: lottie matthews x reader

genre: typical lottie matthews as a cannibalistic cult leader behavior.

warnings: cult themes, cannibalism, dark behavior

MASTERLIST

please do not repost my work anywhere for any reason at all. if you do see this happen to any of my stories, please let me know. thank you x.

lottie had always been the careful kind. she knew how to mask things well, how to give just enough before pulling away. but the softness she carried around you was constant, ever-present. maybe you never noticed it at the time. to be fair, she did always try to be subtle.

she had this quiet, unspoken thing for you. nothing overtly showy, very casual. it wasn’t ever meant to be obvious.

but she’d ask questions about your favorite things, in a way that felt like she was trying to understand you. she’d laugh at your jokes with a little more enthusiasm, but it was always very below the surface.

lottie would have never done anything about it. maybe. she liked having control over it in the ways she could control it. though she’d wish sometimes for you to see it first. to see her for what she felt. but you never did.

so, if she did like you, you probably wouldn’t have known it. maybe you were just too busy with your own feelings to ever pick it up.

she just always seemed otherworldly to you. you play for the same team, sure. but she was on a completely different status. lottie was rich, gorgeous, popular, and a star athlete….and you were just… you.

even when you knew lottie didn’t care much about those things. that popularity was the last thing on her mind, and that she only ever really cared about was playing some damn good soccer.

so yes, maybe you did have a quiet longing for lottie matthews. maybe it was admiration. maybe you were a little embarrassed about it. but it’s not like you’d ever do anything about it. you were perfectly content in keeping her in the little bubble you created just for her in your head.

the truth is, lottie had always been different with you. in a way that never came off too strong. in a way that was easy to miss.

it was in the way she’d stay up with you on bus rides home from a game out of town. how when you were once stuck in a rainstorm together and your clothes were soaked through, how she pulled you under a bus stop to keep you out of the rain. then how she wordlessly laid her sweater over your shoulders. like she’d give you everything she had without hesitation.

you just never saw it. you weren’t meant to.

and maybe lottie would have never confessed to you had the crash never happened. had you all made it to nationals and made it back home safely. lottie would have probably let it build, what she had for you. maybe she’d try to learn what do with what she felt for you.

maybe, lottie had convinced herself that what she already had with you was enough for her.

but that was before.

that pull she would come to acknowledge, the one that could only ever exist out there. in the wilderness. would be the thing that makes everything slip.

now, everything has changed.

the crash changed everything.

without any structure of your old world, the rules, the fear of what things should be, lottie doesn’t care. because out there, in the wilderness she doesn’t have to be subtle, she doesn’t have to hold back.

because out there, what was stopping her?

pre-crash, you always thought lottie was kind of a strange thing, but it was never in a super off-putting way. maybe more nuanced, as if she had something to hide. she was just too kind, too quiet for the average rich popular athlete at wiskayok. though, you suppose maybe that’s your fault for stereotyping.

but maybe you were right in your speculation.

within the first week in the wilderness she’s constantly wandering off, she sneaks up on you when you’re out scavenging, and sometimes you catch her thinking too hard as if something was in her mind speaking to her.

the team calls her weird, to quit talking if she isn’t gonna say anything helpful. especially taissa, who’s constantly firing down anything lottie has to say or everytime she mentions having a ‘bad feeling.’

and in a way, you do feel really bad, but lottie’s strange comments only make you more scared. you do try, in some way, to reassure lottie that everything is fine. you tell her with a encouraging smile that she’s just stressed and her mind is just making up falsities from having little to no food in her system.

but unbeknownst you, you have no idea of the war that’s been going on in lottie’s head. that she’s frightened over the fact that she only packed enough medication for a weekend. that she’s long since ran out. and that she’s already starting to feel the psychological withdrawal of no longer having anything to ground her.

especially after the incident in the cabin attic. when she banged her head on the glass window, then giggled to herself as she gripped shauna’s arm. whispering something to her about how, “it’s in you already.”

what it is? you don’t really know.

but it fucking scared you.

you see the small change in lottie shortly after she goes to laura lee for help. she seems in a way more tamed, or at least more comfortable with whatever situation she was having.

it doesn’t last very long though.

not after everyone witnesses laura lee’s fatal death in how the planes flames swallowed her whole. the plane in which she planned to get everyone the help they needed with.

a part of you can’t help but think that it all felt sort of like an omen. like a sign.

lottie is awfully quiet that night, everyone sort of is. you find her by the lake in the evening, not having had moved since witnessing laura lee’s brutal ending.

you approach her where she’s sitting with her knees to her chest. her head makes a slight turn to acknowledge you, but she doesn’t say a word.

“…lottie?”

her mouth opens and closes but she never says anything. you figure she’s still in shock, so you wait patiently beside her until she does say something.

“it didn’t want her to leave,” she whispers, you almost don’t hear it.

you turn to her, questioning, “what?”

she finally looks at you, and you see just how scared she is.

“it didn’t want us to leave.” and you really don’t want to, but you believe her.

she exhales, her hands start to tremble, and you don’t even think before you try to reach for her. she clings to you immediately.

in any other context lottie might’ve enjoyed the way your arms circled around her. but all she can think about now is how the one person who was helping her tame this thing inside of her is gone. and how she’s now having to fight it alone.

after that, lottie starts changing in a ways she doesn’t try to hide anymore.

you don’t mind it, not really, but she’s so intense. she’s already intense about everything, but especially about you.

things start slow with her. but she’s very much there. you think you feel her or you feel something. either way it’s slow moving, like a small buzz behind your ear.

she gifts you weird little artifacts she finds, coddles you, makes sure you’re well fed even when she’s not. and even when you tell the others you’re gonna go down to the lake for some fresh air, she’s immediately at her feet suggesting she comes with you.

you don’t know how to tell her no. you don’t want to. especially with the look she gives you. so, you just smile and nod. and it’s not like spending time with lottie is bad. in fact, she’s in such a good mood. and you like lottie in a good mood.

she’s pulling you through the wilderness, leading you both, constantly looking back at you with a smile on her face. and you can’t help but think, that even under such circumstances, lottie is quite ethereal. that she’s still untouchable in a way that makes your chest tighten.

so, you spend a whole afternoon at the lake. you try not to think too much of the effect lottie has on you when she strips down to just her undergarments. quietly exchanging looks with you as she does.

then there’s this moment between you.

you both just float in the middle of the lake, everything is quiet except for the occasional ripple of movement in the water.

then you feel it, feel her stare on you.

you’re looking off into the distance when you catch her eyes, already locked on you. lottie doesn’t look away.

you feel your stomach do a little flip. “what?” you ask, trying to laugh off the awkwardness creeping up your back.

she doesn’t answer. she just keeps looking, a smile growing slow and knowing as she stares. like she’s waiting for something.

you don’t know what to do. you feel the heat creep up to your ears, so you giggle, shaking your head at her. then she laughs too, soft at first until it grows into something that rings through the trees.

then one night, as everyone was busy with their own conversation, and as the fire crackled low, you could feel her eyes on you. the light casting shadows on her face. and in some ways, maybe you still see pieces of her old self showing.

lottie doesn’t say anything for a long moment. then when she does it’s soft, unsure.

“i didn’t think we’d end up here.”

you don’t say anything. not at first. unsure of what she meant. maybe she meant the crash, or maybe something else entirely.

lottie shifts in her seat, her movements slow, deliberate. she wasn’t coming off too strong, not yet. but she was there, just close enough for you to feel the pull. there was something in the way she looked at you. almost predatory, but gentle. like she was waiting for you to take the first step, to invite her in.

“you’ve changed,” you said mostly to yourself, but she heard it.

“have i?” her voice is soft, almost teasing, and yet there’s an edge to it. a low hum. “maybe we all have. or maybe i’m just showing you who i really am.”

her lips twitched, and you could swear she wasn’t smiling. but there was something in the way her gaze lingered on you that made your heart beat a little faster.

and then the events of doomcoming happen.

the thing with travis happens. you, like everyone else was pulled into the madness, the hunger. the wild energy of the moment. the thing that consumed you all.

you’d become something completely different. or you almost did. it scared you in a way, but felt so freeing. like nothing had mattered except the raw, primal need that was in everyone.

you weren’t immune to it at all. not as much as you would’ve like to had been. it wasn’t even about travis in those moments. it was about what everyone had almost done. what you had almost become.

when lottie kisses travis, you don’t know what to think. but you know immediately, that it isn’t some kiss of affection, or lust, or longing. it was something purely primal.

he was just a vessel to whatever she was trying to get a hold of. a conduit. a way to touch that part of herself that was fueled by the hunger and dark energy that has defined her since the crash.

it happens so quickly even then. and even when it happens her gaze finds yours. almost something like an apology, you think. but you know there was something more to it.

but the fear still twisted in your gut. because how does one explain what happened that night? how do you say you all got high on shrooms and nearly ate travis to bits?

in that moment you thank god for natalie disrupting when she did. for fighting shauna off before she cut travis up. before lottie could encourage her.

you don’t know how to face her after that.

not when the power she had over herself and over you was terrifying.

lottie never says anything about the kiss with travis. she doesn’t explain it, doesn’t justify it. instead, she shows you.

she finds you the night after doomcoming. when the night has settled over the cabin, and everyone has mostly gone to bed. you’re sitting in front of the fireplace, you don’t flinch when you feel her sit next to you.

“you’re quiet,” her voice is low, just above a whisper.

“mmm nothing to say.”

you don’t ever look to face her, but you feel her watching you. not just watching, more measuring, knowing.

all she does is hum in reply before she shifts closer to you, until you feel the heat of her body against yours.

she doesn’t need to say anything, because in a way you know. whatever fucked up dynamic has been created between you is enough for you to know.

because the way she’s with you is different.

different in a way you don’t know how to justify, and you know it’s not good, but you also know it’s all you really have.

and you know lottie, maybe not this version of her but you know enough to know that she wouldn’t actually hurt you.

not if she’s coming in to check up on you over some stupid kiss with a guy.

everything comes like a wave when it comes to lottie. it hits you hard, and you never really know what to expect.

two days later, lottie officially confesses to you.

you’re sitting by the porch as you stare off into the trees, quietly thinking of everything you don’t understand. you hear shauna in the distance cutting up rations of the bear-sacrifice. you think things couldn’t be shittier, but at least there’s food to eat.

you don’t hear lottie walk up, but you felt her the moment she stepped outside. like the pull that you can’t explain, the one that has kept you from fully staying away from her. you glance over and see her standing there for a moment before she lowers herself beside you on the porch.

you meet her eyes, and there’s something different in them. not the wild hunger you’ve grown used to, not that primal need you’ve felt too many times to ignore, but something quieter, almost hesitant.

it’s like she’s holding back a part of herself, unsure of how much to give or what exactly she’s trying to say.

she stays silent for a while. it’s like she’s waiting for permission to speak or maybe just a sign to know you’re ready for what she’s about to say.

like she’s trying to make this conversation something that’s real, and not just the aftermath of something that swallowed you whole.

she looks unsure, as if she’s even allowed to feel what she feels, unsure if she should even be able to ask for what she really wants.

if she’s earned the right to be soft with you in this way.

it’s like she’s realized how much she’s messed everything up, but still, desperately wanting, to make it right. to make this, whatever “this” is, something that doesn’t have to be another instinct to survive.

she glances at you again, switching between glancing at the ground and you. you don’t look at her until you hear her speak.

“i never really knew how badly i wanted to know you.” she whispered, her voice dipping lower, softer. she looked off to the side, as if looking at you would make her take back her words and go back inside. “not just know you, but…” her words trailed off but the implication of her words weren’t lost on you.

the following days she lingers near you, always close, always watching. lottie always lingered and watched though, but it felt different now.

there was something intoxicating about it. about her. the tilt of her head, studying you under that gaze of hers. like some divine creature was before her. something to be worshipped.

and then with that hunger in her eyes. raw and overwhelming. it made your breath hitch in your throat, and made you wonder how much of the girl you once knew still remained beneath the one she had become.

you’re conflicted on whether you should let her in or continue to give her a wider berth. but you no longer know where that line even is.

she’s whispering to herself all the time, staring off into the darkness of the wilderness. likes she’s become a vessel to something no one really understands. and it freaks you out. it freaks everyone out.

it doesn’t help that everyone is so hungry. that everyone is so moody because they’re hungry. you feel like your stomach is constantly trying to eat itself. and there’s a point when you find the remaining bones of a rat carcass behind some of the drawers, you almost consider chewing on it.

natalie and travis go out hunting nearly everyday. but their luck remains low when everyone starts to realize the winter is coming, and most animals are starting to go into hibernation.

when jackie dies, you cry. you start to feel yourself unravel. like you’ve just lost another piece of yourself and you don’t know how much more you can take. but when lottie tells you, “it wasn’t meant to be. she was always meant to stay here.” you babble into her shoulder, even if you know it’s wrong, you nod anyway.

you let her hold you as she leads you somewhere into the woods, as she presses her cold fingers into your temple, and you let her murmur something holy into your skin.

then when you get back to the cabin you hold shauna as the aftermath of the death of her best friend settles. you let her grieve for two months.

and then you all decide to eat jackie taylor.

weeks later, you follow lottie out one night. when everyone in the cabin is in a deep sleep, a night where you’re just on the brink of succumbing but never do. you knew lottie was still up, you could feel how her eyes would drift from you and to the window looking outside.

when you hear her quietly sneak out through the door you wait a few moments before following her out.

you shiver as soon as you step out. immediately wrapping your arms around yourself to conserve any warmth.

and you find lottie staring at the sky, the trees, everything. as if something unseen was looking back at her. she hadn’t looked at you yet, but you knew she knew you were there. maybe that was her plan all along? to have you follow her out here.

you walk until you land right next to her, following her eyes to whatever is ahead. and maybe you feel whatever she’s seeing too. maybe you feel the way it’s demanding to be seen. but you’re not sure it’s something you’re entirely afraid of anymore.

“you can feel it too, can’t you?” she says, her voice low. she wasn’t talking about how cold it was outside, she was talking about something else.

“i’ve been feeling it,” she continued, unable to tear her eyes away from whatever is ahead of her. “i don’t know how to stop it.”

and you don’t know why you even say what you say, “you don’t need to stop it.” and you don’t know what you even mean when you say it.

maybe because a part of you felt safe knowing lottie seemed fine with letting it in. that maybe it was okay to give in.

lottie smiled then, but it wasn’t shy, it was a smile that didn’t entirely feel like her. it was too confident, too knowing. her hands brushed against yours, just a touch, but it felt like being lit on fire. and then lottie was closer, a lot closer, her face just inches from yours.

“you don’t have to be afraid of it,” she whispered. “you don’t have to be afraid of me.” and you do believe her, in some messed up way you do.

“i won’t take unless you give.” she whispers against your lips.

you feel her fingertips brushing your jaw slowly. her eyes switching between your lips and your eyes. but there’s something about the way she looks at you, like she already knows the answer, or maybe it’s the fact that you do want this. that in ways you can’t explain, you crave her.

then she kisses you, and you let her.

and it’s soft and slow at first. but lottie feels no hesitation once you’ve already given her the go. her hand slides to the back of your neck, deepening the kiss. and as her lips move against yours you wonder why it took so long for you to let this happen. when it felt this good.

when she pulls away, lottie doesn’t go very far. she presses her forehead against yours, as she stares at you through her eyelashes. her breath hitting your lips as she exhales out. the smile on her face is unmistakable. you kiss her again.

after that lottie realizes you’re more malleable to her influence. more than you’d like to admit. you tell yourself nothing will change. that you won’t lose yourself in the way lottie has.

because it’s scary. it looks unhealthy and not real. like all it is, is some brief relief from how horrible everything is.

but lottie is damn good at persuading you. with her comforting touches, and hushed whispers, the way she looks at you. primal and unabashedly. she tells you things that don’t completely make sense. the whispers of “it” and how it wants you, that it “wants us.” in her words.

then she starts to persuade you, making you choose to follow her path, that “it” shows her things. she doesn’t explicitly say it but you know she means you.

but you feel it too. in a way that’s both frightening yet calming all the same. and you feel it in the way lottie touches you. because everything is so cold, in the middle of nowhere, in the winter. and all you can think of when she holds you is how warm she is. how you don’t mind anything as long as you stay here with her.

and then maybe you do let her in. maybe you do let her consume you. because jesus, you’re so hungry, so desperate, and hanging on to any last bit of hope you can find. and lottie is basically offering that to you with a hand held out.

so you let her. because you need something too. something that doesn’t just feel like some instinct to survive but also something that feels like it’s an escape from the instinct to survive. but maybe they’re the same thing when it comes to lottie. but maybe you don’t care.

sometimes you still feel like yourself though, sometimes you feel that old part of you creep out. you notice it when lottie doesn’t entirely feel like lottie. when she says things, in a way that don’t entirely feel like her. when she acts in ways the old lottie wouldn’t. but you agree. you smile and nod and agree.

because when has she ever been wrong?

because hasn’t she kept you safe?

and when she kisses you, when she pulls you into her arms, you don’t think about wanting to pull away.

you stopped wanting to.

one day you realize you don’t even question her anymore. you don’t even think about what any of it means before you act. before you follow along like some loyal servant.

when she beckons you into the woods to follow her, you listen. you sit with her in the snow, and listen to the trees, the wind, and when she asks, “do you feel it?”

you do.

even if you don’t.

because she does.

and isn’t that enough?

maybe lottie did feel bad. she does. she felt horrible for how much she’s changed you. she convinced herself it’s all been in the name of keeping you safe. because it is. that’s how it was always meant to be. but the thing inside her didn’t stop there.

it was thrilled with how you looked at her. how you believed her. how you believed in her. and lottie, god that’s all lottie has wanted. for you to see her for what she felt.

sometimes when it’s quiet, when the snow has stilled, she’ll look over at you and see glimpses of the girl she’s crushed on since junior year. the girl who thought superstitions were stupid, the girl who humbled natalie when she got too cocky, the girl who she would willingly give her jacket to if it were raining.

she imagines what it would’ve been like to really know that version of you that hasn’t existed in so long. she wonders if or when this whole thing is over if you’d ever get a semblance of your old self back. if you’d ever let her stick around to see it.

by the time lottie asks you something you haven’t thought of in a while, you’re already too deep in.

“do you ever wonder?” her voice quiet, the fire from the chimney crackled in the background. “what would have happened if the plane didn’t crash?”

it’s not meant to be a trick question. she just needs to know if you’ve felt it. if you’ve ever ached for something you never got the chance to have, like she has.

and the hard truth is, you haven’t in months. because it’s been so long, and thinking of anything outside this place hurts you.

so you say, “i think i used to.” as you stare off into the space as if there was some distant memory being shown to you. then you turn to look at her, “do you?”

it surprises you when she says she does, “i do.” lottie nods. “but then i stop. i realize it wouldn’t change anything by thinking about it.”

“what do you hope would be different?” you ask her. you’re sitting close, the way you always do now. knees brushing, hands only inches apart.

lottie shrugs, and reaches for your hand to rub. a quiet telling of how she truly doesn’t know what a softer version of all of this would be like. if it would even happen. “i would just hope this...that we would’ve found each other either way.”

her fingers lace through yours, her grip gentle. “maybe it would’ve been different,” she continues, “softer, easier…but you’d still be you. and i’d still be me.”

it’s not supposed to be a demand. the way lottie says it. just a thing she feels. a truth given freely. a hope that maybe there’s a version of you both where your luck could have been kinder. where you both weren’t something carved out by the wilderness, something that wasn’t forged out of desperation and survival. another version of you where it could have been a choice.

lottie watches you, she feels the weight of your hand in hers, the heat of you beside her. she has you now, that’s enough right?

but lottie wonders, she wonders of a life where the plane had landed safely, went to nationals, won or lost, then came home.

a life where she could have courted you the way you deserved, where you’d kiss her drunkenly at parties. where the only thing you had to worry about was high school graduation and how you’d make it work if you were gonna do long distance.

something that could have unraveled naturally, soft, innocent. through stolen glances and shy confessions, rather than in the existence of blood and fear.

she looks at you again, then laughs, then you look at her. she finds it all ironic, that she’s silently grieving a life that won’t even happen.

lottie wont tell you why she laughed. you don’t deserve that. she doesn’t want to make you sad. it’s not fair. not when it’s something that isn’t real. this is real.

her hands find your face. they’re surprisingly warm, you find yourself thinking.

“i love you,” she says instead. it’s the first time she’s said it. your mouth opens slightly. lottie knows immediately what it looks like. like something built from hunger and fear. in desperation.

but it’s not.

she continues before you can start, “i love you not because i have to.” her voice is steady. “not because you keep me sane.”

her thumbs brush over your cheekbones, tracing the shape of you, like she’s trying to memorize you by touch.

“if we had never crashed, if we were just—” she exhales, shaking her head, “if things were normal, it wouldn’t have changed anything. i still would’ve loved you. you have to know that.”

and lottie probably sounds insane. (what’s new?) maybe it’s naive, maybe even delusional. but somehow, it’s the one thing that has felt real to her, the one thing that feels certain.

because it isn’t like she hasn’t thought it over a million times in her head. she’s imagined a version where she had told you earlier, where the plane still would have crashed. the only difference is that maybe she would have had a little more time to be with you in a way that was just yours.

but the wilderness…the wilderness would have still bound you together, would have still tangled you up in something inescapable. it was merely the thing that ensured you were fated.

so if the plane hadn’t crashed? if the choice had been there? if she had gotten to love you the way you both deserved?

of course, it still would have happened.

because if it was meant to be in this version, in a life shaped by tragedy, then why wouldn’t it be meant to be in one where things were soft? where things were right?

before lottie could muster up the courage to tell you any of this, before she could even move, before you can even say you love her back. there’s a crackling sound heard, a sharp heat felt amongst the cold.

first there’s the smell of smoke.

then someone screams.

lottie and you both turn, the cabin is burning.

flames consume the walls, swallowing the only place that has kept them alive, the last place that has ever felt like a shelter to them, a home. everything is too quick for them to comprehend. too fast for them to even mourn the fact that the cabin was burning.

but you’re next to her. alive. breathing. and when lottie turns to you she waits for the devastation to hit, but it never does. at least not in the way she expects.

maybe the cabin was never going to last forever. maybe nothing ever does. maybe the only thing that really matters is what remains once everything else is gone.

and what remains is you.

lottie reaches for you, her hand wrapped in yours grounding her in the only thing that has felt real. the only thing that still exists in this moment, untouched by fire and ruin.

in the middle of the chaos, in the middle of the freezing cold, while everyone watches in horror as the flames completely swallow the cabin, you finally say it.

“i love you.”

it’s quiet, but certain. like it’s been your truth waiting to be spoken. lottie’s breath catches.

it shouldn’t matter. it felt selfish that this was the only thing lottie seemed to care about in the moment, but she didn’t care. even if their world was quite literally going up in flames. but it does. god, it does.

lottie exhales, squeezing your hand in hers as she brings her forehead to yours. despite every fucked up thing happening around them, you both manage to muster up a smile.

“i love you, too.”

and maybe one day when everything is better, when the wilderness isn’t something that weighs on you. when hunger is the last thing on your mind, maybe she’d tell you all about it. about the life she imagined, the one that could have been. the happier ending, with a choice.

but not tonight.

tonight the only thing that matters is making it through another night.

and then one more, and then another. until the spring comes.

[coffee-and-tea-time]

Yandere shop! Choose your yandere!

I was thinking, did you ever listen to yandere asmr videos? If so, you will catch on quickly that this is based on the yandere shop, which was so popular in asmr videos during the pandemia. - coffee

If you didn’t, quick summary Coffee gave me: imagine if there is a place where you can enter and you can ‘buy’ (they pay you since you are going to take care of a serial killer so he don’t kill people while you two got your twisted love) a yandere of your choosing. - tea

Word count: 1.2k but this will be edited to correct misspellings or weird sentence structure later, sorry in advance.

tw: yandere behavior, willing reader, delulu, written in you/yours, reader is a little nervous but really interested, you can choose humans yanderes and non-human (although humanoid) yanderes!

You fix your clothing and take a deep breath, your mind filled with ‘what if..’ yet, you were here, in a place that you didn’t trust was real.

A creak takes you out of your thoughts, a smiling man dressed rather formally, greets you cheerfully.

“Sorry to interrupt when you are so absorb in your pretty mind My dear, but you know, a little push may help you”

He said as he extended his hand to you, well, you already made your way here hoping to get a yandere so you gather all your corague as you take the man's hand. He led inside the shop, you can hear the click of the door closing behind you as you follow him.

“Oh, I hope you weren’t thinking of backing up so quickly Dear, want something to drink?”

You gently shake your head as you sit down in one of the couches, on the inside it looks pretty much like a coffee shop.

“Smart choice but you still seem rather nervous, want to say something before I go ahead and show you the catalog?”

“Well, I wanted to know, what can you do for the yandere you like to like you back? What if the one I choose doesn't like me back?”

Your worries were met with a not-so-subtly laugh from the man which make you kind of annoyed and embarrassed.

“Sorry Dear, I just never thought I ever meet somebody that feel insecure about the love of a yandere”

Now you wanted to punch him, is a normal question to ask! Yanderes have their own way to fall in love!

“Let me give you a quick explanation, if they had a darling, both of us know they would be busy stalking them. The yanderes we have don’t have a darling, but are eager for the sense of love on their own way which may not suit everyone so to avoid problems, this shop was put in place as a matchmaker between differents kinds of yanderes and people who enjoy them"

You sight in relief as you nod.

“alright, who is more likely to go even more insane if they don't get a darling soon.."

"Sorry, what did you just say? I couldn't hear you well"

"Oh, nothing Dear, I was just searching for the ones that been waiting the most, is how the list work, I will show you a few options first so you have an idea, you can ask for another kind if you had something else in mind, I'm sure we got something that will suit your taste; Although, do remember that is just one yandere, we had problems with that before"

"How is it that someone got the permission to have more than one? I thought you guys will keep in track that since well, it's dangerous for anyone"

"She didn't have permission but she manage because she stubbornly wanted a yandere harem, the result are expected, averyone in that house died except for one yandere, he is again on the list, and as you can guess, he end up more being more... intense. He is totally your perfect option if you like a very possessive yandere, he's a more serious yandere for that experience"

“That will be dangerous for me too?”

"Dont worry Dear, he is truly desperate for love like the rest, his name is Dizie. But if you rather a more gentle treat, Gabriel is your guy, I don't know much about him since he said that only his darling will get to know everything about him. As far as I know, he's kind of yandere that will kiss the ground were his darling walk, a worshiper you can say, if you like someone looks at you like you are a deity, he's definitely your perfect match"

“Isn’t every yandere a worshiper in their own ways?”

"Well, I guess? Is true that others have another específic ways to worship, look, he's the baker, relishes in your enjoyment of their pastries, a very skilled baker that knows how to include the most unique of ingredients to make the sweetest of treats, dreams of putting his heart and soul in every treat he bakes for his darling, his name is Oliver”

"What kind of ingredients tho?"

“The next one you may like is actually a popular singer, he chooses to keep anonymous unless chosen, but if you want to be a celebrity or date one, he is someone you can guess that will love to spoil their darling, he’s on the talkative side, if you like art or stuff like that, you will enjoy his house. although he babbles a lot of how he wish to hear the voice of his darling obsessively for hours”

The seller seems to dodge your question.

“Ah, of course, we also have some special yanderes if humans are boring or less attractive for you, look, he’s Myotis, the classic vampire, he even has wings! Isn’t it perfect to see the sky closer while you enjoy the company of a yandere that looks like he just came out of a book? If you are also into short kings, you gonna love him without a doubt”

"He's not going to drain me out of blood, is he?"

“Dear, why would a yandere who waits so long for their darling, kill them? But if vampires aren't your type, you could go for a mothman! You will be the light of his life, literally. He’s a big softie and kind of clumsy; he just eagerly waits for the arrival of his daylight. A good choose if you like special clingy yanderes, he is not around humans too much, but he said he wanted to be called Lior if he got chosen. Oh, if you are on the stronger side, you may want to keep your eye on Tarak, he said something about his name meaning something like star and protector I think, I guess he chose the name by himself, he’s a prideful dragon and really loves to talk, honestly, I’m not that intelligent to understand some things that he say, but if you like to know new things by listening, asking or reading, he's your man, you can try trying to teach him something new, I don't think is impossible to archive”

“You know what ag…”

You stopped talking when you catch a security camera in a corner moving around frantically yet appear like not seeing anything?

“Don’t mind him, is just Grier, even though I don’t know if that's his real name, I do know he loves trying to spy here using the security cameras so we end up having to put tape on them when a darling is coming to the shop; as you can guess, he’s a hacker, if you choose him, you will be very well protected and taken cared of since you gonna be being watched even when you think you are alone, if that what you wish for, please do choose him.”

The seller looks at you, waiting for an answer, to choose what kind of yandere you want or ask for a specific type now.

“You don’t really go outside too much, so I don’t think you gonna have problems with any of them”

You act like you didn’t hear his murmur as you look at the papers in your hand of every yandere he just talked about.

If your favorite options lose or you want something specific, just send an ask! We love comments and interactions in general so don't be shy.

Seller post

Sneak peek of the first encounters

The singer post

Grier post

sorry for any misspellings or weird sentence structure ❣

images from pinterest ⚘

[littlelovelunette]

professor!sevika and teachers pet reader and your graded starts to slip so she takes reader over her knee and makes her read out the answers all while she adds a finger in or with like those wooden rulers that teachers have give the reader a swat

Improving Percentages

Professor!Sevika x Teacher's Pet!Reader

Contains smut, spanking, fingering

This one's a little funny because I have a muscular business teacher and I'm the topper in the class too…

Sevika is your business studies professor, always dressed in tight suits that make her muscles bulge through the fabric.

She gave the best explanations and lectures, not to mention, she never made you feel belittled for having a silly little question.

Her classes were always full though, and you needed to always be early to get a proper seat at her very front which earned you the title ‘Teacher’s Pet’.

Not that you really minded it but it made making friends become a tad bit harder.

Sevika had taken a test on ‘Organisational Structure’ and you were sure you had done well.

You were so confident and your answers seemed fitting with the questions too, no doubts.

When she handed your paper to you, she sighed and your world just about fell apart.

0%

“You didn't do well this time, y'know why? I keep telling you to add information about the stem question in your answer and constantly hold the comparisons up so the examiner has an idea of what they're looking at,” Sevika scolded, crossing her arms, “The first time you made this mistake, I had told you never to let it repeat. But you did.”

“I'm sorry…” you could only mumble under your breath.

For a second, she didn't say anything before adding, “I'm putting you up for extra class.”

“Extra class—” you began but then she cut you out.

“I know you're busy Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday. I'm setting you up for Mondays and Wednesdays. You're free then, no?” Sevika asked, shocking you with the knowledge she had of your routine.

“M-Mhm, I'm free then,” you said in a small voice earning a nod of acknowledgement from her.

The next day, it was a Wednesday so you had the extra class with Sevika, sighing to yourself, you walk to the classroom.

You're a bit shocked because you saw the chairs were pulled back, leaving only Sevika's chair out.

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion and you walked in despite a little hesitantly.

“Come here,” Sevika gestured to make you come closer to herself. Suddenly, she grabbed your wrist pulling you over her lap with ease.

You gasped at the suddenness of her actions, “M-ma’am…” you managed a little croak. Sevika pulled your skirt up and tutted. “Tsk, doll, so wet. How do you expect to study like this?”

She pulled your soaked panties down, she sent a harsh slap on your ass making you whimper.

“When I ask you a question, doll, you'll answer it.”

“Yes ma'am, I'm sorry,” you whimpered into her lap, pussy clenching over nothing.

Sevika gave you the answer sheet from the exam that you failed at, “Read it,” she said, pulling your panties down and shoving two fingers inside your pussy making you yelp a little.

“Ma'am, please…” you whimpered but realised you had no way out.

She started moving her fingers in and out of your hole as you bit down on your bottom lip, letting out a shuddering breath before starting to read.

“For the business mentioned in the stem, the best organisational structure wo-would be a narrow chain of command due to the fewer number of workers placed under respective ma-mana-manager,” you took a deep inhale, her fingers were drilling into you lazily and other hand holding you in place firmly.

“H-h-however, a n-narrow span of command increases the number of manag-managers— ah…” you let out a little squeak as you felt your clit being pinched.

Sevika tsked, pulling her fingers out and grabbing something off the desk. You didn't have much time to register what she grabbed when the harsh swat came down on your ass.

“Ma'am, please, I'm sorry,” you sobbed but she continued hitting your ass with the hard wooden ruler, “Please I'll be better— Ah! P-Please!

Sevika finally stopped dropping the wooden ruler, “Bunny, I don't wish to do this to you,” her big hands cupped your reddened butt cheeks, “But you give me no choice.”

“Please, ma'am, I'll be better I promise,” you whispered and whined.

Sevika shook her head, gesturing you to read as she plunged her fingers in your hole again, “Oh my gosh, ah… um— Wider chain of commands indicate m-more workers u-un-under a single manager which can affect their performance,” your breath hitched as you felt her add a second finger and you lost the sentence you left off at.

“Ma-Ma’am,” you began but Sevika understood, grabbing the ruler off the ground and spanking your ass with it again, creating red lines over your soft skin, you whimpered and sobbed as she continued hitting your ass with it.

“P-Please, please I'll be good, ma'am it hurts, my butt hurts,” you cried and Sevika sighed, shaking her head as she put the ruler away.

Sevika picked you up, letting you sit on her lap. You winced at the feeling of your swollen ass against her rough pants,

“You'll be better?” Sevika asked, squeezing your ass cheeks.

“Yes ma'am, I'll be better,” you said and she finally gave you a little smile, bringing you close, locking your lips in a gentle kiss.

[aimless-imagines-for-fun]

Vacation: Part one

PART TWO PART THREE

Pairing :: OPLA!Sanji x fem!Reader

Warnings :: 18+ Content, NSFW/SMUT, Oral(f recieving), Semi-Public sex(they did it in an alley), Light teasing

Word Count ::  3,373

Summary :: After being forced on a vacation at the Baratie, you catch the eye of a certain blond cook who loves to tease you.

A/N :: I was trying to find the right mix between pervert simp anime Sanji and suave charming live-action Sanji. There will for sure be a part two.

Go watch the One Piece live-action.

If you enjoy my work consider leaving a comment or kofi as support   ʕ • ᴥ • ʔ ❤️ 

“I see a place we can stop to make repairs, Captain Tommy,” You said, eye still focused on the small floating mass in the distance.

You worked on a merchant ship for a wealthy businessman named Greylock. You were his top secret contract negotiator. The reason you were a “secret” was because he never introduced you as a negotiator. You would always find your way to sneak into his potential clients’ and contract partners’ inner circle to figure out what type of people they were and what they wanted. With this personal knowledge, you would then come up with the best plan of action to secure a beneficial deal for the business. It was easy for you thanks to your typically quiet demeanor. You knew when to stay silent and read the room.

Captain Tommy, Greylock’s business partner, set a course for the wooden structure floating. “Let’s hope the owner’s kind enough to let us port for a while.”

“How long do you think it’ll take to repair the damages?”

“The storm banged us up pretty good, not to mention all the scrapes we’ve gotten from pirates.” He glanced around the ship. “I’d say at least three to four weeks.”

You cursed quietly under your breath. “Greylock isn’t going to be happy about that.”

Captain Tommy shrugged. “There’s nothing we can do. The ship’s falling apart. We won’t be able to make it to a port town before the ship sinks.”

You knew Greylock would be upset once you told him, so you took precocious measures to alleviate the anger.

You stood with him on the deck, watching as you approached your soon-to-be temporary home. "You know sir, you've been mentioning wanting to take a vacation for a while."

He sighed, shrugging. "That's because I'm getting older and tired of working. I became a merchant to see the world, not to work endlessly."

"Well then, how about you finally take that vacation now while we repair the ship?"

He turned his head to give you a weary look. "Take a  vacation while the ship is repaired?"

You nodded with a smile. "Captain Tommy told me it would take at least three weeks to repair the ship. Instead of worrying about work, you should relax during that time."

"(Y/N)-"

"And you can give the crew a chance to rest. Were y'all dreary from that dreadful storm, not to mention the attacks we had to endure before?" You patted his shoulder. "You know what they say, a happy crew is a dutiful crew. And a tired crew typically ends up killing someone."

Grey lock laughed at your made-up saying, but you were able to persuade him. "You're right. We've been working too hard recently without a break." He looked out once more, finally in the distance to see the name of the place you'll all be staying for the next month. "Lads!" He shouted loud enough to grab everyone's attention. "I want you lot to enjoy yourselves at the Baratie. Think of our unscheduled stop as a surprise resort! Haha!"

Immediately the crew lit up. While everyone cheered and began to talk about what they'd do with their spare time, aside from repairs, you looked up at Captain Tommy. He had a small smirk, giving you a wink. He knew if anyone could get Greylock to give the entire crew a break, it'd be you.

-

You walked into Baratie behind Greylock and Captain Tommy. It was typically for the three of you to grab a bite together whenever you arrived at a new town so that you could discuss your work objectives. Today, however, it was simply a meal between friends.

A fish man greeted you at the entrance, accepting a small fee before allowing you to take your seats.

You looked over the menu, wondering what to try first. You'd be around for a while and we're sure you'd get to try a few items on the menu before departing. Greylock and Captain Tommy chatted with one another, used to your silence. They knew that you spoke when you felt you needed to.

The swing doors to the kitchen flew open. You glanced up from the menu, seeing a blond man to have caused the small ruckus. He looked upset, brows furrowed and tight lips turned down.

'I wonder what got him so riled up,' You thought.

You kept your eyes on him, noticing he was making his way to your table with a tray of bread rolls in hand. When he was about halfway, he noticed you sitting right of Greylock and his mood instantly seemed to pick up. After his eyes locked with yours, his gaze lit up and a dashing smile graced his lips.

Seeing his mood do a complete one-eighty after spotting you, you shot your eyes back down to your menu. 'Please don't be our waiter. Please don't be our waiter. Plea-'

"Hello gentlemen and fair lady, my name is Sanji. What would you like to drink to start you off? We have several rare Micqueot vintages in stock."

Almost throughout his entire introduction, you could feel his line of sight fixed on you. He didn’t mind that you didn’t look at him. It allowed him to sneak a glance at your chest without being noticed.

"Anything fancy would be a waste on me. I'll just have a simple whiskey to start with," Greylock said. Captain Tommy put up two fingers, requesting the same.

"And what will you be having, darling?"

"Hm… I'll have a sweet tea."

"A sweet drink for a sweet girl understood."

Your eyes shot towards him, a little shocked by his straightforward demeanor. He gave you a quick wink before walking away.

Now, it was time for the old men to act like school girls. 

Greylock started the teasing first. "Awe, our little (Y/N) has a young man who's interested in her," 

"And by the small blush on her cheeks, I'd say she's interested too."

"Wh-what blush?" You stuttered, only now feeling the heat center in your cheeks.

"The one that's covering your entire face." Captain Tommy laughed.

"Shut up. I was just caught off guard by his remark." You practically shoved your face into the menu, embarrassed to face the men before you any longer.

They continued laughing for a moment before talking about what to order.

After Sanji came back with your drinks, it was time for you three to place your orders. Again, your colleagues ordered before you. This time though, you spoke right when Captain Tommy finished his sentence.

"And I will have the seared ahi tuna."

"Do you want the chocolate sin cake after for dessert, love? It's so moist it'll melt in your mouth, I promise," He said in a sultry tone for no other apparent reason than to get a rise out of you.

And once more, you were left stunned and your face was heating up. You were certain he was only teasing you, but you were still upset giving him the presumed reaction he wanted.

"She would love the chocolate cake!" Greylock's hand patted your back hard, causing you to fall forward a bit on the table. "It's been a while since she's had a good pastry."

“Coming right up.”

He left with a swift turn on his heels and when he was out of sight you glared daggers at the two accompanying you.

“What do you think you’re doing, sir?”

“Trying to make sure you have a fun time here.” He took a swig of his whiskey before continuing. “Listen, you’re always working hard for us, and you rarely make any time for yourself.”

You sink in your seat a bit. He was right. On the rare occasion you did flirt with others, it was to secure a deal, and then, you were gone.

“Plus, the boy’s easy on the eyes. You’d be mad to not give him a chance.” He bursted out laughing.

Captain Tommy was a bit more comforting with his words. “You probably won’t interact with him much, so don’t mind him.”

Choosing to believe him, you relaxed for the remainder of the meal. ‘Captain Tommy’s right. As long as I don’t come here again, I probably won’t run into him.’

Too bad you had a crew that loved to go out because about two days later, you found yourself back at the Baratie. This time, Sanji wasn’t your waiter which you were more than thankful for. Captain Tommy and Greylock might’ve teased you a bit, but the men with you now would have embarrassed you so much you would never step foot out of your living quarters again.

Around mid-way into your meal, you excused yourself from the table to go use the restroom. While walking down the hallway, your attention was on the various paintings that decorated the wall.

Since you weren’t paying much attention to what was in front of you, you collided with a firm chest. You nearly stumbled back until a pair of arms wrapped around you, holding you in place.

“Ah-! I-I’m so sorry! I should have been paying attention to where I was… going…” You looked up at the person you had bumped into, locking eyes with a familiar blue-eyed blond.

He gave you a large grin, replying. “No need to apologize madam. I should be the one apologizing,” You tilted your head, “for disturbing a fine piece of art like you.”

You immediately turned away, hoping he wouldn���t catch your growing blush. “Can you please let me go?” You asked timidly.

You felt his hold tighten for a quick second before letting you go. Without another word, you rushed past him to the women's restroom.

Sanji watched you run away, a playful grin plastered on his face. “Oh, I’m going to have fun with this one,” He mumbled, already missing the feeling of your body pressed against his.

-

This would be how every interaction you had with the blonde cook and occasional waiter, played out. You would try to be formal with him, he'd make a flirty or suggestive comment, and then you'd start to blush or stutter.

Typically it was whenever you went to eat at Baratie, but there were a few occasions when he managed to catch you outside.

-

"I must be in heaven because I'm seeing an angel before me." You tensed up in your seat and froze upon hearing Sanji.

You were at the small outdoor bar next to the giant fish-headed restaurant. Around the end of the first week, you noticed that the place had a pretty good view of the sunset. Sure, you saw the sun set often, but you rarely actually watched it fall below the horizon line, disappearing until morning. It was a minor peaceful event you wanted to enjoy on your supposed vacation alone.

The sky had already darkened by this point. You were just around to finish the drink you had.

"Good evening, Sanji."

He sat next to you, pouting playfully. "Come on m, (Y/N). We've known each other for over two weeks now. There's no need for you to keep acting so stuffy all the time."

You crossed your arms. "I'm not stuffy."

"Yes, you are. Every time I see you it's always a quick sentence or two before nothing but silence. I'm starting to think you don't like me."

'I wish it was that simple.' In fact, you were having the opposite reaction. You were used to making contracts and business deals with people when you spoke to them. You weren't used to being openly flirted with for no reason. 

Like always, you avoided making eye contact with him. This time, you fixed your attention to the remaining ice cubes in your drink.

He leaned closer to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. "Or maybe, it's because you're too shy to admit you like me," He whispered, hot breath hitting your ear and sending a tingle throughout your body.

You snapped your head around, face burning up when you saw how close he was. That damn coy smile plastered on his perfect lips.

He chuckled to himself, brushing a strand of your hair out of your face. "That's it, isn't it?"

"Why do you keep messing with me?" You bluntly asked. Frankly, you were getting tired of his game, even if you weren't entirely sure what this game was.

This was the first time you had caught him off guard. He leaned back a bit, tilting his head. "What makes you think I'm messing with you?"

"If you actually had an interest in me, you would've told me or showed me by now. You just keep saying sweet nothings to mess with me and I'm sick of it," Your voice was growing frustrated, finally voicing your opinion. "I'm trying to enjoy my vacation, not be bothered by some- Hey!"

He grabbed your hand, lifting you from your seat with a tug and pulling you away. You followed, partly because you were unable to pull away and partly because of curiosity as to where he was taking you. He led you to a small alley a bit away.

Before you could question his intentions, he leaned down to press a firm kiss onto your lips. His hands fell to your hips, holding onto you with a firm grasp and locking you against the wall behind you. Almost as if he were afraid you’d try to escape. His nerves were quickly set to rest when you began kissing him back, your hands holding his shoulders. His tongue licked your bottom lip and you gladly parted, allowing him to shove his tongue in your mouth.

After some time, he pulled away and began trailing kisses down your neck. As he did, you felt his hands wander to the button of your shorts.

Feeling him work to undo them you asked him, “What are you doing?”

He pulled away, a coy smile still on his face. “Showing you that I have an interest in you.”

He began to pull your shorts down and you felt your heart begin to race. You weren’t directly out in the open, but if someone going down the main walkway happened to turn their heads they’d spot the two of you.

“Sanji, wait- What if- Ngh!”

He started rubbing your clit through your growing wet panties, chuckling at the quick response he got. “‘What if’ what, darling?”

You glared at him, trying to voice your concerns, but again, he continued to distract you with pleasure.

He knelt down on one knee, grabbing your left thigh, and hooking it over his shoulder after completely removing your shorts. You watched with half-lidded eyes as he pushed and held your underwear to the side, revealing your pussy. He stuck his tongue in first, licking up your folds while maintaining eye contact with you through his blond locks. He continued this motion and you bit your bottom lip, hoping not to make a noise.

He wasn’t having any of that though. If there was one thing he loved, it was to know he was doing a good job. At first, he had started to tease you a bit because he thought you were cute when you got flustered. As the days went on, he noticed that you might not have said much, but you couldn’t hide your physical reactions to him. Your face was almost always flushed around him. Your grip on whatever you held tightened with the simplest of sentences. It made him wonder what type of lover were you? Quiet, non-verbal, highly responsive to the slightest touches, etc.?

He had just never gotten you alone to figure it out, until now.

He sucked your clit, earning a squeal in response. Your hands immediately shot down to his head, grabbing hold of his hair.

‘She looks so cute trying to stay quiet.’

He could feel his pants tightening around his crotch, watching you squirm because of his touch. It was getting difficult for you to stay up with one leg, especially when he slotted two fingers into your wet cunt. He curved his fingers in you, moving them slowly at first before picking up the pace to match how quickly he was flicking his tongue against your clit.

“Sa-Sanji, I- I don’t think I ca-can last much longer,” You whined.

Even without you telling him, he could tell you were getting close. Your walls had started to tighten around his fingers and he had to hold the thigh of your standing leg to support you. He would’ve loved to have you come undone around his tongue, however, for his first time with you, he wanted to fully see your expression.

He pulled away and you let out a loud sigh of relief, panting a bit. You were a little disappointed you hadn’t finished but were hopeful to continue this in a more private enclosed area. Your head was a bit fuzzy though, and you didn’t pick up on the small noise of him undoing his trousers or when he completely pulled down your panties.

He grabbed your thighs and housed you up to position the head of his penis right at your entrance. When you felt it rub against your slick folds, your eyes widened. The two of you watched as he pushed his cock in, seeing it disappear in your cunt. He groaned, eyes rolling back for a moment at how tight you were wrapped around him. You whined, feeling his length fill you up.

Slowly, he rocked his hips back and forth, giving you a chance to adjust to him. He watched your face with amusement, a mix of pleasure and embarrassment in your expression. You were still biting down on your lip, hoping to be as discrete as possible given the situation you were in.

With one swift hard thrust though, you let out a moan. Your legs wrapped around his hips and your arms around his shoulders. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, allowing him to clearly hear all your little whimpers and mewls of delight.

After hearing your moan, he began to thrust harder, wishing to hear more of your voice. You could hear his grunting too, breath growing heavier and heavier with each stroke inside you.

No longer needing to hold you up with both hands, one of them slipped underneath your shirt, sliding under the cup of your bra. He groped your breast, happy at how soft it was in his hand.

The harder he continued to thrust, the shakier your moans got. You were getting close to your release again and he wasn’t far behind, his own breathing now becoming ragged. Now, with each thrust, he could feel your walls tighten around him. Wanting to make sure he got a good look at your face when you came, he briefly removed his hand from your breast to tug your hair back. With your face pulled away from his neck, he plastered his lips against yours, shoving his tongue once more in your mouth. After, his hand returned to groping your breast.

His grip on your thigh was so tight, that you were sure there would be markings. With how hard he was kissing you, your lips were bound to be puffy when he stopped.

Your mind was becoming foggy and all you were focused on was the pleasure you were in, no longer caring someone caught you. You moaned against his lips, your entire body growing tense in his hold. Your walls clamped around him, finally hitting your high.

Seeing your eyes fall shut, engrossed in the feeling of climaxing, combined with how your cunt squeezed against him, he hit deep one last time before unraveling himself. His cock pulsed in you, dumping his entire load inside, savoring how your body milked it.

He pulled away from the kiss, each of your breaths now shaky trying to regain your composure. Your head fell back against the wall, eyes remaining on him.

“What do we do now?” You asked.

“We plan out the rest of your vacation. You’re here for at least one more week, right?” He kissed your cheek. “That gives us one more week of fun, darling.”

[snitchbo]

I dont know how to explain why this is important

But let's not forget that Parkour Civilization is a meritocracy. A socialist autocratic meritocracy.

I feel people don't dwell on this fact enough, opting to just focus on the capitalist allegories, which is awesome bc the allegory is strong and well made, but the literal government seperate from allegory is ALSO very well made and unique, i mean I've never seen a fictional government quite like it, and it's impressive.

People often struggle to conceive the thought of another government or societal idea, and Evbo managed to make an entire government and social norm completely different from any of our own.

Like, let's break this government (or lack of) down.

Parkour Civilization has a sole and all-powerful ruler, The Champion. Which makes the society autocratic with a dictator.

The "businesses" ( housing stores, buying food and blocks, etc. ) are collectivley owned, not belonging to a single person but rather the community. Especially in higher layers, people receive as much as they give to their society. If they work, they get food, they do extra tasks, they get blocks. It's essentially a Marxist Leninist socialist society, but one that's heavily affected by the meritocracy, which can make it seem more capitalist leaning.

Speaking of Meritocratic society, people often mistake the meritocratic aspects as being outright capitalistic, like the social hierarchies and needing to parkour for basic necessities. HOWEVER this is because the society is structured based on your merits in parkour, those with a higher skill level are placed higher in the social chain. Thats why the Parkour Champion is a dictator, because they're the person who is THE BEST at parkour, making them the most capable to lead society according to meritocracy.

In any case, the fact that people are forced to parkour ALL the time is pretty understandable, considering this government is based on merit. They're encouraging people to show off and practice their parkour because their skill level is the only thing to get them anywhere in society. Based on their merits, they get their bare essentials, and if they have particularly good skill levels, they can rank up in society and have access to better resources.

People also always talk about how Evbo didn't make food and resources accesable for free without parkour, which is kind of where the capitalist lens takes over because those things ARE free. There isn't a system of currency in Parkour Civilization. it's all just MERITS. The fact they can die from parkour and the fact they use language like "buy" and "sell" makes it seem capitalistic, but they dont work and receive currency. The currency is infinite as long as their SKILL SET allows it. People had to worry about the consequence of dying from parkour, which is what made it scarce and less accesable, people werent willing to try. Evbo, however, gave them the ability to try again without consequence, which pretty much DOES make everything free, as free as it gets. They have infinite "currency" based on their skills, and theres no consequence for failing or trying again.

I also feel that when people beg Evbo or the future generations to turn Parkour Civilization into more of a communist society, they're completely ignoring the worldbuilding. That is an insane leap to make, from a society based on parkour abilities to having nothing to do with parkour? "Well, they can still parkour!" They could, but you'd be removing the vitality of it completely. I mean, imagine asking the states to become fully communist? It's an insane change that their society would never make, and thats not the end goal. Society can be functional and good without our interpretation of a utopic government because every society is different.

I love the government in Parkour Civilization. Please hear this. And ask me questions or talk to me about it.

[mediumgayitalian]

It is so rare, for a day of peace. So, so rare. For the Apollo cabin to be empty, for siblings to be busy, for the sun to be gentle and the birds to be sweet.

"Hey, Will."

So serene. Truly. Cecil lounging on Will's bed, remembering to have taken his shoes off for once. Quietly flipping through a comic book. Will, suffering but willingly, with his Calculus III textbook on the floor. Actually making progress this time, gunning through practice questions.

And Lou Ellen.

It always has to be one of them.

Lou Ellen watches, velvet skirts tucked under her crossed ankles, dark eyes squinting in contemplation.

Will barely looks up, scrawling something illegible over the most graphite-smudged paper maybe in the entire world.

"Yeah."

"Can we kiss for a little bit?"

That works. The slowly shifting sun through the dusty windows pauses. The chisme plants turn, slowly, shifting their stems to the center of the cabin. Will takes a full seventeen seconds to visibly separate from his textbook, process the question, and erupt into a shade of red previously unknown to man.

"Um," he says, or rather squeaks. "Yes?"

Cecil snorts, turning a page.

"Bicycle."

"Shut the fuck up, Cecil."

"Just like your father."

"Shut the fuck up, Cecil."

"I just want to try something," Lou Ellen soothes, potentially hearing the lack of breathing happening in Will's general direction. "Like, for science. That works for you, right, nerd?"

"Science generally begins with a hypothesis and due process," says Will weakly. But he dutifully crawls over to her direction, settling in front of her. "Um. Now?"

"Now would be great," Lou Ellen agrees. She tilts her head. "So do you just, like, go for it, or...?"

"I mean. In my experience?"

"Which is about to go from two to three," Cecil adds.

This time, Lou Ellen and Will are in perfect sync:

"Shut the fuck up, Cecil!"

Cecil flips another page and promises nothing.

The determination has slowed some of the blush in Will's face, containing it high in his cheeks. Or, well, spite. Cecil-branded fury. That does a whole lot of activating every modicum of ADHD impulsivity in Will's soul.

"Okay," he says, nodding to himself. He meets Lou Ellen's wide, round eyes. "Okay, so I'm gonna -- lean in. And we gotta close our eyes or it's weird. And then I'm gonna kiss you, okay? And you test."

Lou Ellen nods, serious. "Got it."

She breathes in, then out. She purses her lips, leaning forward. Her hands rest, fingers spread, on her knees. Her eyes flutter shut.

Will exhales. He squeezes his eyes shut.

He leans in, gently, and presses his lips to hers, resting a warm hand on the soft curve of her jaw.

"Hm," says Lou Ellen, as they separate. "Hm."

Will shifts nervously.

"You smell good," he offers. "And you taste like orange shampoo. In a good way."

Lou Ellen narrows her eyes at him. She reaches her hand out slowly, like how you may approach a startled horse, and grabs Will's chin with the tips of her fingers.

"Why," Will says.

"Hm," says Lou Ellen, again. She moves his face from side to side, inspecting. Will does not protest, but does choose to make an entirely unintelligible gesture with his hands. "You are hot, aren't you."

"Gah??" Will says. The confusions shifts rapidly from his face; his eyes widen, pupils narrowing, he tries and fails to pull slightly away and generally makes a collection of noises that boil down to hey, pardon. "I'm??"

Cecil choses this moment in time to tuck his comic carefully away, facing his friends in full. He also chooses to take this time to appraise Will's slightly squished face, nodding smugly.

"Yeah, he's a babe."

"Right, okay, that's what I thought. It's the bone structure, right, it totally --"

"Yeah, yeah, and the pouty lips, that definitely --"

"--you're so literally right --"

"You ever watched his shoulders?"

"They're biteable! Biteable, and when he plays volleyball it's like --"

"--yep. And his legs are approximately the length of the equator."

"Freckly, too, it's so --"

"His eyes??"

"I know??"

"Honestly wild."

They turn to him, twin dark brown eyes glowing amber in the sun, appraising him from his golden hair to his bare toes. Will, unfortunately, seems to be right on the urge of passing out, so red he has begun to glow, so warm Lou is forced to let go, and so lightheaded he has begun to sway.

"Hngg-what," he mumbles, eyes far away. "Wha -- I'm --"

Cecil pokes gently at him with his toe.

"I think we broke him," he observes.

"I see," Lou Ellen agrees, chin in her hands. "That's kinda cute, too."

"Oh yah. He's like -- he's never not a smokeshow, you know? Like he's hot when he's mad."

"Smoking."

"And the whole -- it's diabolical to say, but he's like..."

"Movie star pretty when he cries. Yeah, yeah, I hear you."

They turn to each other, lips pursed in thought. They turn back to their slightly dying friend.

"Hm," they say, together.

Will begins to pray. His father, intrigued, only shifts to better the lighting on Will's face. Will agonizes, shifting to pray to his aunt. This too proves useless.

"You know," says Lou Ellen. She taps her manicured finger against her cheek. "We could always share him."

Cecil raises his eyebrows. "We could?"

"Do I??" Will gestures wildly, face now glowing so brightly he is kind of hard to see. "Get a say??"

Cecil and Lou Ellen look at each other. They look back at Will.

"No."

"Nah."

"That's! I am -- taken, okay! I!"

Cecil snorts. "A long-standing crush on greasy Gerard Way does not count as --"

"It's not his fault he's greasy!"

Lou Ellen observes the boys. She hums to herself, rocking back on her knees.

"-- and he's hardly ever here, you met him like twice --"

"Four times! And he's charming!"

Hm indeed.

"I have an announcement to make," Lou Ellen announces.

Both boys stop immediately. Lou Ellen nods graciously, sitting regally on Will's bed. Will pouts a little, but says nothing.

"I am considering converting to lesbianism," she says solemnly. "I'm not sure yet, but I have been presented with a case and it is compelling."

Will and Cecil shrug, making noises of agreement.

"Yeah, fair."

"I mean, girls. I get you."

Will clears his throat. "But, uh. No boys? For sure?" His pout returns. It is indeed very cute. "Did I do a bad job?"

Lou Ellen reaches over and pats him very gently on the head. Her bangles get in his eyes a little. He blinks them away politely.

"Aw, no. You just seem very hung up, and I'm not sure how well dating Cecil would work, and no one else will talk to me yet."

"Dating me is an amazing experience, I have references," Cecil says, at the same time Will says, "Wait, still?"

There is a pause. Again, they speak at the same time:

"Stop using me as a reference, Cecil, gods."

"You want me to vandalize their possession for you, Lou? I would love to do that for you."

Lou Ellen moves to pat Cecil gently and condensendingly on the head.

"I'm good. Thanks, though. Chiron says they just need time. And perhaps an ass-kicking, if I feel so inclined."

"Sage."

"Good advice, that."

They all nod at each other. Wordlessly, they stand, returning to their earlier positions: Cecil, reclining on Will's bed, having abandoned the comic book for a nap; Will, poking at his math; and Lou Ellen, passing a green spark around her fingers and carefully Observing.

It takes her several minutes of reflection to blink and realise.

References.

Her eyes widen.

"Hey, wait a second --"